How to be Dead
by Zero to Hero
Summary: One fateful Saturday, Arnold runs into Helga, who has been away from Hillwood for years. Months later, he finds himself haunted by her...literally, and he is forced to face his worst nightmare.
1. Something Old, Something New

a/n: ¬.¬

1.7.10: repost of old chapter...a little revised.

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**"What is life, but excuse for death, or death but an escape from life."**

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How to be Dead

Chapter 1 – Something Old, Something New

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"Fall on your knees. Oh hear the angel's voices. Oh night, divine. Oh night, when Christ was born."

"I hate Christmas music," Gerald said, shifting department bags from his right hand to his left. "Seriously, when is this going to be over?"

Arnold narrowly avoided running into a rather large woman who was moving surprisingly quick despite her girth. He steadied himself before quickly jogging to catch up with Gerald. "I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say Christmas. That's when they'll stop playing Christmas music," he finished sarcastically.

Gerald flashed him a nasty look. "Geez, that never would have occurred to me." He staggered as a man chatting on his cell phone bumped into his shoulder. "Hey! Watch it!" he shouted, but the man continued without breaking his gait. "I hate people who are always on their damn phones."

Arnold rolled his eyes. They had been shopping for over three hours now, and both boys were tired of running into people, waiting in long lines, and fighting over toys with over-zealous soccer moms with bad haircuts. Gerald had a small cut on his forehand, a battle scar from their trip to Toys R Us for a gift for his niece. His mother gave him the task of getting the most sought after toy in the city, some stupid updated version of Tickle-Me-Elmo, which Arnold thought was just as creepy as the original. Both boys, who detested shopping anyways, were beyond their limits of patience, even with each other. "Where to next?" the football headed boy asked as they found a small empty space away from the crowds to regroup.

Gerald stopped to look at his list, and a pretty girl slammed into him from behind, knocking him face-first on the dirty mall floor. The contents of his bags were sent flying. "Aw, damn," he muttered as he picked himself. "You better hope that nothing's broken!" he shouted. Arnold raised an eyebrow. Gerald clearly hadn't seen the assailant, a curvy, raven-eyed girl who was wearing a rather skimpy outfit considering it was the middle of December. "I mean—" he stopped as he turned to stare at her, his mouth hanging open.

She looked genuinely concerned. "I'm so sorry! I was talking to my niece on my phone! I didn't see you!" She slammed the phone closed and flashed him a bright smile. She was clearly as impressed with him as he was with her. "Here, let me help you." She bent down and began to pick up his things.

"'S okay," he slurred. He tilted his head and smiled at his view of her cleavage as she bent down to pick up his things. "OH MY GOD!" she suddenly shouted.

Gerald quickly jumped back. "I wasn't—"

She stood up, holding the ugly red doll. "Where did you get this? I've been looking EVERYWHERE for this!"

He smirked. "I have my ways. It's for my niece."

"You've got a niece too? Awe, and you're getting her a Christmas present! That's too sweet!" She handed the toy to him, smiling slyly. "Care to share your ways with me?"

"I think I can let you in on the secret," he said huskily. She smiled back, her eyes twinkling.

"Uh, Gerald?" Arnold asked.

The two turned and stared at him, surprised to see another person. "Excuse me, uh, --" Gerald asked as he started to introduce her to the football headed boy who was standing by them.

"Mikalia," she answered, smiling widely.

"Gerald?" Arnold asked. He was sick of watching this scene of teenage lovestruckness.

"And you're Gerald," she flashed a dirty look at Arnold. Gerald kept his eyes on her, and as her eyes moved to Arnold and back, his moved from her face to her breasts and back. "I like it," she said as she shook his hand.

"Not as much as I like yours. It's very unique."

"My mom wanted to name me Kaila, but my dad wanted to name me Michelle, so they combined it. But then the nurse misspelled in on my birth certificate, so thus Mikalia."

"Awesome story." Gerald's eyes were glazed over, and a high-pitched giggle escaped the girl's pretty, full mouth.

"GERALD!" Arnold shouted.

"Excuse me," Gerald said to Mikalia. She waved suggestively at him although he was only moving about three feet away from her. Arnold felt nauseous. "Arnold, I'm working here," he whispered harshly as he motioned with his head back towards Mikalia.

"Yeah, I see that," Arnold muttered dryly. "You seriously aren't bailing on me, are you?"

"Well—"

"Gerald, I gave up a chance to work a double shift and earn some seriously needed cash so you wouldn't have to be, and I quote, 'a pathetic loser who's Christmas shopping by themselves.'"

Gerald smiled. "But I won't be. I'll be with Mikalia."

"But I will be! You don't bail on friends over girls, Gerald!"

"Arnold," he said, his voice below a whisper. "Do you realize how hot she is?"

Arnold looked around him. Mikalia was standing with her arms crossed, looking very bored and annoyed, though cute. She caught Arnold staring at her, and she shot an icy glare at him. Arnold looked away quickly. "Yeah, so she's got nice breasts. Big deal. You can't seriously be thinking about ditching me."

Gerald laughed. "Arnold, my man, I'm not thinking about ditching you."

Arnold gave a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Gerald."

"Uh, you didn't let me finish. I'm not thinking about it…" he paused. "Because I'm doing it!" he quickly turned and grabbed Mikalia. "Let's go!"

"GERALD!" Arnold shouted, but they were lost in the shuffle of crabby shoppers. "Crud," he muttered aloud. A woman shot him a quick look and began walking faster to get away from him. Sighing, he made his way over to a bench in the middle of the isle, reaching it just before a small child did.

"Excuse me, Mister, but I was going to sit there." The little boy tugged at his pants with sticky little fingers.

Arnold looked down. The kid wasn't very cute, and he sounded like he had a bit of a speech impediment. Pity spread through him, overwhelming all his feelings of exhaustion. He sighed. "Fine," he said as he stood up, but he quickly fell back down due to the weight of his bags. I need to remember not to try and do all my shopping in one day. Apparently, he wasn't moving fast enough for the little kid, who responded to Arnold's sluggishness with a swift kick to his shin. "OW!"

"I WANT TO SIT THERE!"

"You can't wait?" he asked as rubbed his shin, silently cursing the evil child. All his pity for the kid was leaving very fast.

"NO! NOW!" the boy screamed. His face was contorted and slowly turning darker and darker shades of red.

Geez, maybe this kid really is the devil's spawn. "Okay, just wait," Arnold struggled to get a grip on his bags. The child responded with a scream so shrill Arnold was convinced it wasn't human.

Hundreds of eyes turned towards him. Arnold felt his face burn as the child kept screaming. "Uh, please stop," he whispered as he stood up.

A woman who was just as ugly rushed to the boy's side. "What the hell did you do to my child?" she demanded as she smoothed his hair down in attempt to soothe the child. The boy continued screaming like a banshee.

"I just—"

She looked him up and down, clearly not happy by what she saw in front of him. She spent a long time staring at his head, which Arnold felt was rather rude, considering both the mother and the son had slightly piggish features. Her face was plump, and it was a bright shade of pink due to her anger. A picture of Wilber flashed in his head, though Arnold would consider the pig to be much more attractive than this woman, and would probably have a better personality. "You should be ashamed of yourself, making a poor, innocent child cry!" she said in a throaty, frog-like voice.

Her words tore him away from his thoughts, and he stared back at her round face. Innocent my ass. "Ma'am, I'm sorry for upsetting your child—" he said calmly.

"And you should be!" They both looked at the child, who was still screaming. The kid was turning purple. Arnold swore he would have to take a breath sooner or later, but he continued on. Arnold smiled. Now it was becoming slightly impressive.

"Why the hell are you smiling at my son's pain? You are a filthy, evil little boy!"

His eyes flicked down to the boy's candy-covered hands and a stain on the woman's coat that was a similar shade. His temper was waning as more and more people stopped to stare at the three. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But can I ask why your son was left alone in a crowded mall?" he yelled over the screams.

The woman looked at him, shocked. Her small, beady black eyes shifted from Arnold to the kid. "My son? MY SON! How dare you call my daughter that?" She bent down to coddle the girl, who had finally stopped crying.

Arnold's eyes widened as he turned back to the child. Greasy brown hair was plastered in a bowl shape on the girl's rather large head. The green sweat pants had a construction worker on the pocket, which was paired with a horrid red sweater with a dog in a Santa hat on the front. Snot glistened as it slowly began to creep out of the piggish nose. The kid still looked like a boy to him. "I'm sorry—"

"What is going on here?" a short, fat man in a suit asked with a voice that reeked of feign authority. The man was slightly out of breath, and his balding head sparkled underneath the Florissant lights with sweat. Arnold looked at his name tag. Ralph, head security guard of Hillwood Mall. Arnold looked back at Ralph with some sympathy. It had to be horrible to be a mall cop around Christmas time. Still, Arnold knew that this was the kind of man who would act like an ass just because he could. He looked back at the woman. And she acted like an ass because she was one. Arnold's eyes narrowed. He liked to think the best of people, but at the moment, he doubted there was a good thing in either person.

"This boy attacked my daughter!" the woman cried.

Arnold sighed. "I'm sorry, and I'm leaving," he snapped.

"Hey! You can't leave!" the man shouted, but like Gerald before, Arnold successfully blended in with the crowd. He ducked into a ritzy department store.

A tall, thin, blond woman in a white lap coat jumped out in front of him, stopping him in our tracks. "Would you like to try our latest product, just out for the holiday season?"

"No," he answered, and he used his soccer skills to quickly maneuver around her. He was, however, in a very crowded cosmetics department which was filled with similar looking women in lab coats. Another quickly cornered him as he was stalled behind a mother and her daughters. "Sir, you look like you still need to find that special something for that special lady," the woman asked as she opened a box of cosmetics under his nose.

Arnold sneezed. "No, thanks, I'm….gay, actually," he lied.

"Oh! Well then, would you like to buy yourself something?" she asked without skipping a beat.

"Huh?"

"It's the most wonderful time of the year," a woman sang over the radio.

Arnold grimaced as she sprayed him with an awful brand of cologne that smelled like sweat, leather, and gasoline. He looked at the label. Metro Cowboy. He shot the woman a look that meant, "You've got to be kidding," but she continued to smile at him, her perfectly white teeth blinding him. He glared back at her, and moved on. When is this going to be over?

"Done," Arnold said an hour later, smiling. He started to sigh, but a noise from his stomach beat him. He laughed as a woman walking beside him shot him an odd stare. I think I earned myself a nice, greasy dinner. He checked his watch. It was three, and he supposed that even though it was Christmas time, the food court wouldn't be too crowded. He moved quickly to stare at the mall directory. I'm here, on the first floor, and the food court is on the third. He looked around, and spotted a blond-haired girl going into the elevator. "Hey, hold that please!" He ran over to it, dodging people and ignoring their nasty comments. "Hey!" he shouted. The doors were beginning to close as he ran into the elevator, and he flew into the elevator as he tripped over his own feet. He brought the girl down with him.

"Ow! Watch it!" she yelled in response. Her voice was harsh and edgy, yet it seemed oddly familiar. She stood up as he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"I'm so sorry. I'm usually not that clumsy." He spotted a pink iPod and picked it up. "I think you dropped this."

No response.

Arnold stood up and brushed his clothes off. "I'm sorry," he said pleasantly, smiling. He held out the music player, but he was speechless as he looked up at the girl, positive his look of astonishment matched hers.

He was staring into the wide, blue eyes of Helga G. Pataki. He couldn't be sure; after all, he hadn't seen her in years, but the face looked too similar for it not to be her. She was his height, with bright yellow hair that fell down well past her shoulders. Dark brows that were too close together (though there was a slight space between them) rested atop those amazingly dark blue eyes, and, although she looked amazed, he could tell the face was generally in a frown. Her face had soft, feminine features mixed with a strong, masculine jaw and brow. He looked her up and down, from the oversized boots, black patterned tights, short black shorts, to the white Ramones t-shirt over a black long-sleeve shirt. A silver skull necklace hung around her thin, long neck. It had to be her. "Helga?"

"Arnold," she replied. There was no question in her voice.

"You dropped this," he said, still smiling as he handed the iPod out for her. She didn't take it.

Suddenly the doors opened. "Are you two going somewhere?" a woman snapped as she and three boys climbed into the elevator.

Arnold looked at Helga and waited for her to answer. She continued to stare at him, looking slightly catatonic.

"Well?" the woman snapped. One of her kids was looking hopefully at the buttons, waiting for someone to tell him what to push.

"Third floor, please," he replied.

The small ding of the elevator brought Helga out of her trance. "Wha?"

Arnold's smile widened. "You dropped this. And I'm sorry I ran into you."

She took the device from him. "It's ok," she said gently. She quickly looked away from him, looking at her shoes.

He raised an eyebrow. This wasn't like Helga. Was she acting…shy? "Listen, I was about to go get something to eat. Want to join me?"

She stared back at him, her mouth slightly open. Her only movement was blinking.

"I mean, to catch up and everything. It's been years..."

She continued to stare blankly at him.

"Helga?" He was getting worried. He hoped he didn't give her a concussion. He stepped towards her. "Helga, are you alright?" He reached out to touch her.

"I'm fine, Football Head," she snapped back as she waved his hand away. Her eyes widened, and Arnold smiled at her normal response. "Would you like to join me?" he asked again.

She nodded slowly. When they reached the food court, they each went and got their own food. Arnold returned to the table with a tray full of greasy fast food. He was surprised when he saw Helga only had a bottled water. "Did you already eat?" he asked as he sat down.

"No," she replied, looking down at her lap.

Arnold frowned. "Aren't you hungry? Do you need to borrow some money? I have a bit left, or we can just share my food if you want."

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry, honest." She finally looked up, giving him a small smile.

He eyed her before ripping open a ketchup packet. He'd never seen Helga like this, though he hadn't seen her for years. Was it possible that Helga somehow turned into a very polite and reserved girl? He chuckled to himself. He doubted it. Still, why would she be acting so strange? He cleared his throat and attempted a conversation. "So, how have you been?" he asked as he removed the top bun of his cheeseburger. "God, how long has it been since you left? Four years?"

"Five."

"Oh." He took a bite of his food. Helga was sitting with her head resting softly in her right hand. The sleeve of her shirt, which he realized was rather large on her small frame, had fallen slightly, revealing a very tiny wrist and forearm. He chocked slightly as he spotted a thin, pink scar running across her thin arm. He could see the beginning of another running in the opposite direction. He looked at her more carefully. Although she had grown considerably in height, Helga looked like she was about the same size as she was when she was in grade school. He knew plenty of tiny girls at his school, and Helga had been thin in grade school, but she looked ridiculous. "Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?"

"Yes." There was a slight edge to her tone, which made him feel better. "So, how's….uh.... Sorry, where are you living?" he asked, attempting once again to have a conversation.

"South Dakota," she said dully.

"Right. So how's South Dakota?"

"Fine."

"And your mom? You're living with her, right?"

"Yeah, and my aunt. They're both fine."

"How's your sister?"

"Fine. She's living in Hillwood again. She moved here after she graduated."

"Oh." Arnold chewed his food in silence. He couldn't tell if he was treading into rough territory. Helga's expression remained unchanged, and her voice was flat. He didn't pay too much attention to the Pataki's affairs, and Helga certainly never talked to him about it, but from what he could remember, the Patakis' divorce was an especially ugly one. "So who are you staying with here? Phoebe, or your sister?"

"Bob."

"Oh." Pause. "Have you talked to Phoebe?"

"Not yet. I wanted to get my shopping done."

He smiled. "Did you get everything you needed?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

"Do you always come out here for Christmas? I've never seen you, and Phoebe's never said anything about you being in town."

"This is the first time I've been back."

Arnold choked slightly on his fries. "Oh. So does your dad visit you in South Dakota often?"

She drummed her fingers softly on the table. "No. This is the first time I've seen him, too."

He paused. "I'm sorry for asking, Helga. It's none of my business."

Something flickered in her eyes. "Why are you sorry? I'm the one with the depressing life," she snapped as she folded her arms across her chest.

At least she's sorta here. "I just—Helga, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she snapped.

"I know, it's just…you seem so, different."

"You haven't seen me in five years. Things are bound to change, including people."

"But…" his voice failed.

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing."

They finished in silence. Or rather, he finished in silence. Helga never even opened her drink. She just squirmed in her seat, especially whenever he looked at her. He was getting nervous. There was no way Helga G. Pataki could have turned into such a mousy girl. There was little of the Helga that he remembered in the girl who sat across from him. Flashes of it when she snapped at him. Physically he could see her; the face and the ears were too much the same, but she was so quiet and shy. Helga was never shy. And she'd only called him a name once. Something wasn't right. He finished his lunch and began packing everything back into the bag. "Do you want—"

"I should let you get back to your shopping, or your family," she said suddenly. "I don't want to take up any more time."

WHAT?! This from the girl who used to seem to go out of her way to make his life miserable? Now she didn't want to waste his time? "You're not wasting my time. And I'm done shopping." He grinned at her, hoping to melt whatever was leaving her so icy.

Her eyes softened, "I really should get going. I haven't seen Bob yet, and I need to get these things wrapped."

"Oh." His face fell.

"Goodbye, Arnold," she said as stood up.

He watched her back as she began to leave, but something in his chest was telling him to stop her. "Helga! Wait!" he cried as he clumsily leapt up from the table.

She stopped, but didn't turn around. "Yeah?"

He moved in front of her. She seemed startled that he was so close. Arnold blushed, suddenly realizing he was just inches from her face. "I'm really glad I ran into you. It was nice to see you again."

A faint blush spread across her cheeks. Arnold was startled. Her red cheeks made her dark blue eyes sparkle, and her golden hair stand out like a halo around her head. Wow, she looks really pretty. He swallowed hard. Did I just say that Helga G. Pataki looked pretty? He shook his head. But it's not her...not as I remembered. Something's wrong, not just that I think she's pretty...

"Arnold, are you ok?" Her voice sounded like it was passing through a tunnel.

Arnold shook his head and grinned at her. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"It was nice to see you too," she said as she adjusted her purse and her shopping bags.

"Merry Christmas."

She gave a very, very small smile, one that for some reason seemed to break his heart. "Merry Christmas, Arnold."

Arnold gulped as his stomach did a summersault as she said his name. She gave him another slight smile before turning and walking away. He thought about running after her, but his brain suddenly woke up. What are you thinking, running after Helga? it said in a voice that sounded oddly similar to Gerald's. It's Helga. Helga G. Pataki, the girl from your nightmares.

He sighed. His brain, or Gerald, or whatever, was right. He needed to be heading home anyways. His grandma was making a traditional African dinner, and she would be upset if "Kimda" wasn't there to help. Still, he watched her leave. Somehow, she seemed to stand out in the crowd. He grinned at her ridiculous outfit, and he noticed that she didn't have a coat, and it was well below freezing outside. He vaguely remembered the newscaster saying something about a blizzard this weekend. He mumbled a prayer for clear skies as he headed to the exit.

"Damn," he muttered as he stepped outside. Outside was nearly all white. The ground was covered in show, and it blew down in heavy, sideways gusts. He picked up his phone to call Gerald, who he had ridden to the mall with. The phone rang several times, and went to voicemail. He ended the call as Gerald began to rap his message. He began to dial the boarding house, but he knew there was no way that the Packard would make it here and back in one piece. He and Grandpa would probably have to push it back home. He slowly counted in his head and realized that he was about thirty blocks from home. He didn't have enough money for a taxi, he knew that, and his bus pass was missing from his wallet. He vaguely remembered tucking it in his pant pocket yesterday instead of putting it back into his wallet. He groaned as he began the long walk home.

"I'm back," Arnold said as he crawled into the house, collapsing onto the floor. He could vaguely hear a man on the radio talking about the blizzard-like conditions outside.

"Short Man, your grandma's been waiting for you," his grandfather said as he climbed down the stairs. "Whoa, what happened to you?"

"Christmas shopping," Arnold responded before sneezing loudly. He sat up and groaned. His bags had tipped over, and he thought he heard something break. Then again, the whole house was beginning to spin.

Phil frowned and put his old hand on his grandson's forehead. "Arnold, I think you better get going upstairs," he said, his voice suddenly serious.

"But…the party…Grandma…" he muttered.

"Go on, Arnold. We'll be alright down here. I'll be up in a bit with some soup."

"I'm fine," Arnold said. He started to walk forward, but he staggered, nearly falling on his face. Phil caught him, straightened him up, and led him to the stair railing. "Upstairs," he demanded.

Arnold finally gave up his protest, and he immediately collapsed on the bed when he reached his room. The fever quickly took hold, and he wrapped himself in his blankets, falling asleep almost immediately. A tall, thin girl filled his thoughts, though they were becoming vaguer and vaguer with each passing minute. "Helga," he whispered as he lost consciousness.

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Two months later…

.

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Arnold opened his eyes before quickly shutting them. Sunshine poured in through his sunlight, and it hurt his eyes, even through his closed eyelids. Morning already, he thought angrily as he rolled on his side. He looked at the clock. 8:45. He signed and pulled his comforter over his head. Too early to get up on a Saturday. He pushed thoughts of everything he needed to get done – clean the kitchen and the bathroom, study for a history exam, write an essay for English, go to work – from his head and began counting sheep. He gave up once he reached ciento noventa-nueve (he had begun counting in Spanish after he reached 748 in English), realizing that he probably should look over his Spanish too. "Damn it," he muttered as he sat up. He yawned as he stretched, popping his back in several places. "Ow." He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around his room. "AHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

A few seconds later, an elderly-looking woman opened his door. "You alright, Grasshopper?" His grandmother asked.

Arnold swallowed hard. "Yeah, I just, thought I saw something…"

She shook her head. "You need to eat more fruit. I think you're getting the scurvy. Hurry and get dressed, the colonel and his wife will be here any minute for tea." She shut the door, and Arnold could hear her muttering as she descended.

A harsh laugh filled the room, and Arnold felt himself paling. "Wow, she's as nutty as ever. I see where you get it, Football Head."

He stared at her. Sitting Indian style on his couch was a tall, thin girl with long, blond hair. Her large, blue eyes were hidden behind dark lashes and darker brows. Though she was smirking, her face looked as if it was contorted into a frown most of the time. "Hel-Helga? What are you doing in my room?"

She frowned, looking much more like his memory of her. "I don't know…." She gazed into space.

"What do you mean, you don't know? How'd you get in here?" He asked, throwing his covers off and standing up. He shuddered slightly as his feet hit the cold floor.

She looked back at him, her eyes blazing. "I said I don't know! All the sudden, I was here, and you were snoring very loudly, interrupting my thoughts."

"I don't snore," he defended quickly.

"You do. And what's with the get-up, Hair Boy? Have you had those things since you were eight or something?"

"Wha—" She gestured to his pants, which were about three inches too short, a size too tight, and covered in Superman symbols. He blushed. "No, we've just…what are you doing here? THIS IS MY ROOM!"

"Obviously, Arnold." She stood up and mimicked his stance.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE?" he cried, his temper slipping.

She stood up as well. "I told you, I DON'T KNOW! Stop yelling at me!"

"Well, you have to go. NOW." He walked over to her, grabbed her arm, and began pulling her to the fire escape. "It was—" He stopped and looked at his arm. His hand was cupped as if it was holding something, but nothing was there. He turned back to Helga, bewildered. She was standing in the same place with her arms folded, smirking. Something wasn't right. Arnold looked her up and down. She was wearing black boots, black tights, short black shorts, a white t-shirt with another shirt underneath. "What's with the boots? It's like 75 degrees and sunny outside."

Her smirk fell, and she frowned. He walked over to her. Face to face, she annoyed him further as she stood about two inches taller than he did, though she was wearing boots and he was still barefoot. He examined her face. She was very pale, paler than he remembered. Her skin was an eerie white, almost luminous-like. Her dark blue eyes were flat; no light reflected in them. "Helga, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said defiantly.

"Helga, please—"

"I'm fi-ine," she sang, and sat back down.

He reached out to grab her, but his hand went through her arm. His eyes widened. "Why can't I touch you?" he asked slowly.

She sighed. "You honestly haven't figured it out yet, have you?"

He already knew what she was going to say before she said it. "I'm dead, Arnold."

The next thing he knew was darkness.


	2. At the Bottom

disclaimer: all characters, rights, etc., to nick and craig bartlett.

* * *

_How to be Dead_

Chapter 2 - At the Bottom

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A bright light dazzled Arnold's eyes as he tried to open them. Slowly his eyes focused, and the light was eclipsed by a round shape. The shape had a golden ring around it, like a halo. Who else was in his room? Grandma? But it was yellow, not white..._wait..._

"Helga?" he asked. The figure moved.

"Well, you're alive."

He sat up. "What happened?"

She sat Indian style on his bed. "You woke up. I was here. You fainted," she paused, "like a little girl."

"So I'm a girl. Original, Helga." He went into his closet, changing and trying to figure out exactly what part of the conversation didn't make sense, besides the fact that he was supposedly talking to someone who was dead. "If you're dead, why can't you find anyone more interesting to bug?"

"I dunno. Maybe because I had so much fun tormenting you as a child."

"Ha." He came out, fully dressed. She had moved over to the window and was staring out into the city. "So, what happened?"

"You fainted."

"I mean, how did you die?"

She turned, her eyes narrowed. "That's a little rude to ask, isn't it?"

"And being in someone's bedroom uninvited isn't?"

"Touche." She turned back to the window. "I don't remember."

"Is that a cop-out, or the truth?"

"The truth. I really don't remember how I died...or much before that. The last thing I remember was being at an airport."

"Grasshopper! Breakfast!" his grandmother called.

"So, is your grandma still bat-shit crazy?"

Arnold walked over to meet her eyeline. "Look, you've gotten your jollies in bugging me. Ha ha. Now go haunt someone else."

"Listen to me, I don't know why I'm here. I don't know how I got here. And I don't know how this works. And trust me, you are the _last_ person I would want to spend my afterlife haunting. When I figure out how to get away from you, Hair Boy, trust me, I'll be gone before you can say 'boo,' but in the mean time, it appears you're stuck with me."

He groaned, and headed downstairs. He could feel her following him, although she made no sounds. This had to be a bad dream. He was sleepwalking. How was she, _she_ of all people, here? Dead? He had to be hallucinating... he did a quick inventory over the food he had ate recently. nothing seemed unusual, though he never did learn to completely trust his grandmother's cooking.

"Grasshopper!" Grandma shouted.

"Seriously, have you had her checked out for dementia...or something?"

He spun around. "Alright, here are the rules: if you are going to follow me like a dog, than shut up, or at least lay off my grandma."

She narrowed her eyes, but after a pause agreed. Arnold sighed and entered the dining room. Ernie, Oskar, and Mr. Hyunh were already sitting (Susie and baby Oskar had left the boarding house long ago) and talking loudly, arguing over something trivial as usual. A few other borders also sat at the table, far away from the three obnoxious men. Arnold took his usual seat beside Ernie, and Helga stood in a corner, watching the scene with wide eyes.

"Shortman!" Grandpa cried as he entered the room juggling plates of meat, eggs, and toast. He sat them down and rumpled Arnold's hair playfully.

"God, what died in here?" Helga asked. Arnold shot her a dirty look.

"Arnold, why are you glaring at the wall?" Mr. Hyunh asked.

"Yeah, what did the wall ever do to you?" Ernie asked.

"Uh, I thought I saw a spider. I hate those things."

"Yeah, I saw it too! Big, ugly thing, look like Ernie's face," Oskar laughed. "Seriously, I want a discount on my rent since I'm living in an arcade-infested house."

"It's arachnid, Kokoshka, and you haven't paid rent in three months!" Grandpa yelled.

"It's the horses...they don't agree with me!"

"Get a job!" everyone yelled.

"Eat up!" Grandma yelled.

"Good God, Arnold, are you serious? I mean, your grandpa's not half bad and your grandma's at least entertaining, but what's with those three stooges, Shorty, Fatty, and Stupid."

"Helga," he muttered.

"You say something, Arnold? Speak up, boy!" Grandpa said.

"Yeah, speak up, Arnold. The old man's hearing's gone, just like his memory. I paid my rent!"

"I can hear like a bat, and I'm in better shape than you, Oskar! And maybe my memory is going, because I think it's been _four_ months since you last paid any rent!"

The two continued arguing, and Helga continued her color commentary over the meal, going around the table and listing each person's faults and shortcomings. Her comments ranged from minor scrapes to deep wounds, or at least that's what they would have caused had her subjects been able to hear her. Arnold listened uncomfortable until a particularly scathing remark about Oskar caused him to snap. He stood up and threw an apple at the spot where Helga stood, forgetting that objects went through her. The apple hit the wall with a dull thud and fell quietly to the floor, but the slight noise was heard by everyone. The conversation had stopped once the fruit made contact with the wall.

"Uh, Arnold, you alright?" Grandpa asked after a very long moment of silence.

"Uh, Spider," he muttered. "I'm gonna finish this upstairs."

* * *

And so began his horrible weekend. Helga bugged him incessantly, ranging from mildly irritating him by talking non-stop while he tried to study to aggravating him at work to the point where he told her to shut the hell up and called her an annoying idiot. Of course, as he was the only person who could see her, his boss thought Arnold was talking to him. It was not a good night.

He found no sanctuary; she was everywhere. At home. At work. At Gerald's. Even at school, which he thought would be his refuge. She hated school when she was younger, but she seemed to (correctly) think it would be the place to provoke him the most. She was at her most annoying in English, a subject Arnold one time enjoyed but now hated. His teacher, annoying to begin with, believed that _Hamlet_ was the end-all, be-all of literature. They had spent two months on the play, and now they were nearing midterms. Under different circumstances, Arnold would have enjoyed the dark tale, but all he thought was that Hamlet was boring, Ophelia needy, and he thanked God most died in the end. Helga, however, seemed to love the play as much as his teacher, and talked about it constantly.

"You know, whenever I think of Hamlet I think of poor Yorick," she said one day during class. "You know, it's his skull, and _that's_ when Hamlet holds the skull, not during the 'To be/not to be' soliloquy."

"Fascinating," he muttered.

"Yes, Arnold, it is fascinating!" his teacher cried. Arnold rolled his eyes and shot Helga a dirty look, which a classmate thought was intended for her. She returned with a death glare of her own. Arnold sighed, cursing Helga in his head.

"It also reminds me of a song."

"Really..." he lowered his whisper to a near inhuman register.

"In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh-eh, oh oh oh oh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh-eh, oh oh oh oh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh-eh, oh oh oh oh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh-eh, oh oh oh oh. In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh. What's in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie-eh-eh."

"STOP!"

Arnold's face burned like the sun as he felt every pair of eyes in his English class stare at him, including those belonging to his very surprised and livid teacher.

"Arnold, am I upsetting you in some way?" she asked.

"Um...no...sorry, I was....erm...Can I get a drink?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Sure, if that will prevent more rude outbursts."

"Yes, it will..."

He rushed out, and Helga, of course, followed close behind. he ducked into an empty supply closet. "Wow, you know, there are classes for anger management."

"I don't have anger issues except when it comes to _you_. Why are you still here?"

"For the last time, Hair Boy, I DON'T KNOW."

"Okay, well, maybe you can answer this: why are you making my life a personal hell?"

"Isn't that what ghosts do?" she asked.

"I don't care what ghosts do or don't do. Why are you doing all this to me?"

"So everything bad that has happened is my fault?"

"YES!"

She paused. "Well, maybe you made my life hell, and I'm just repaying the favor."

He groaned. "That's real mature, Helga."

"I think you are just being ridiculous, Arnold, and are trying to find an outlet for all your pain and misfortune by blaming someone else for your problems, when really they are all your own."

"That's ridic-" he stopped as the door opened. A scruffy janitor stared back at him, clearly realizing that Arnold had been talking to "himself."

"Er-is this not the bathroom?" Arnold asked lamely.

"No. And don't think I don't know what you kids do in here...either with someone or alone..."

Helga laughed hysterically, and Arnold rushed out, embarrassed beyond any other situation in his life.

* * *

Six days. Six days. with his own personal poltergeist, and he was cracking up. He'd quickly gotten used to others thinking he'd gone crazy, since he had spent a majority of the week talking to "himself" and doing other weird things, but he was beginning to believe it was true. The day before he had been called into the guidance office at school, where it was recommended that he see a shrink for his "unusual and disturbing behavior" over the past week. He sidestepped the issue by blaming stress over his English exam and the crushing weight of college, but in the back of his head a small voice whispered that it wouldn't be a bad idea. If not a shrink, a priest or something. His mind had reached its breaking point. Even in the moments she was gone he found no rest; he never knew when she would return. She was his pendulum. She was his madness. She was...

Here.

He didn't even need to look up anymore. He could sense her. His body filled with dread and anger, and he suddenly felt tired when she arrived. "Go away," he muttered, his words muffled by his arms as he sat with his head on his open English book.

"If only it were that simple," she remarked.

"Stop saying that. Just stop talking. If you have to be here, can't you just be quiet? God, I'm thinking that _I'm_ the one who died and this is hell."

"Maybe. It's just as likely as any other explanation."

He pulled his head up and looked at her. She sat beside him on his desk and played with the ribbon tied on her wrist. "Why do you wear that?" he asked.

"I thought I wasn't allowed to talk."

He sighed. "I don't know anymore. I'm just so tired."

"So go to bed. It's 2 am on a Sunday. Why are you up?"

"I have test tomorrow in English, and I've been so worried about _you_ all week that I haven't studied. And I can't find my damn study guide."

"So let me help. I'm kinda a bad-ass at English, especially Shakespeare."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Don't you think you've helped enough this week?" he turned back to his book.

"You know what, you're right. I'm bored with you anyways, and if I could leave, Football Head, I would. So just give me a damn book, and I'll stay out of your way."

He tossed a random book from his desk at her, and returned to his studies, turning up his copy of _Hamlet_ on tape up as loud as it could go, ignoring the flashing battery light on his iPod. She sulked off into a corner, and he was barely aware of her...or that sleep crept up at him. Regardless, his the irritating buzzing of his alarm woke him up. Happy it was not the irritating buzzing of Helga's voice, he rose only to find that he had yet to study for his test. The test he needed to ace to keep his average, to get a good scholarship and go away to college.

"Helga?" he asked as he rushed into the closet. No answer; she didn't hide her presence from him, not when she could bug him. Something about last night bugged him, but he had more pressing issues to worry about.

The ride to school was a blur. He frantically looked over his notes, but they could have been written in Chinese for all he understood. Minutes ticked by like seconds, and he found himself panicking in English class, staring at a blank test as time kept slipping.

"You know, you could have just let me help."

_Not now_, he thought, hoping somehow she could read his mind. He looked up from his seat. Helga was sitting on his teacher's desk, watching her grade papers.

He looked up at her, glaring.

She shrugged, pushing a stack of papers onto the floor. His teacher looked at the vent, thinking a burst of air pushed the papers off the desk. She picked them up, but not before Helga maneuvered them, leaving a rather thick packet on top. "Huh, number one is A." She stood up and walked over to him. "Two is C. Three is also C. Four is B..."

"I'm not going to cheat," he muttered.

"You're right, you're too boring and _noble_ to do that," she said.

Arnold returned to his test. _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, "As you wish," she whispered, sending a shiver down his spine.

_Okay, forget her...test...college...important! Pick two essay topics out of five...blah blah blah...._ He looked over the five choices. He couldn't connect his brain to most of the questions, but two seemed to hit him over the head...Ophelia's love and suicide in Hamlet...he didn't know how, but he wrote like a fiend, providing detail after detail to support his answers. It was a tough ending, but he finished before the bell, with no time to spare and no Helga.

He bounced from the room, glad to have that weight lifted off his shoulders. Gerald caught up with him. "So, how'd the test go? Finally ready to stop obsessing about it and be normal again?"

"Gerald, you know what it means..."

"Average, college, scholarship, blah blah blah. Arnold, you're fine, even if you slip a little on one test. Live a little, will ya?"

The weekend flew by. A few parties, work, and Arnold found himself having a great time after a week of hell. Helga, for whatever reason, has absent for the entire time, disappearing after her show in English. She didn't resurface for a few days, until Arnold received his English exam back. Excited about his score, he went home to boast to his grandparents, and there she was, waiting for him in his room, reading a very worn book. She sheepishly put it aside when he entered the room. "So, Hair Boy, what's shaking?"

He was too happy to remember that he was perpetually mad at her. "See for yourself." He tossed the test to her and flopped on the bed.

"Wow, a 97. 'Excellent essays.'" He could hear her flipping through the pages. "I'll say these are excellent essays."

"Thanks."

"I mean, they're _mine_, so they would be great."

He sat up. "What are you talking about?"

"These are _my_ essays. These are _my _words." She throw the packet at him. "Does this sound like you wrote it? You're welcome, by the way."

He grabbed the test and read it quickly. She was right' it didn't sound like his words. The essays, though written in his hand, were composed of a flowing, almost poetic language that he would never be able to write. He saw words that he didn't even understand, analogies he could never imagine, and details that he could never remember.

This was not his work.

"How--this is your essay?"

"Pretty much. I mean, there are some lame and weak moments that are clearly yours, but yeah, it's mine."

"How? How could _I_ have written an essay using your words? Did you possess me or something?"

"I don't think I can do that...Wanna try?"

"NO! Seriously, how did this happen? How did _your_ words end up in my _head?_"

"You wouldn't let me help you, and you were freaking out so much. I just wanted to help."

"What did you do?"

"You threw your social studies book at me, and it had your study guide in it. I read over the questions, including the essays, and read out loud what I would write, hoping it would stick in your subconscious and help you." She shrugged. "I guess it worked."

He eyed her carefully, trying to remember that night. "But I was listening to my copy of the play...how could I hear you?"

"You battery died. By the by, it's really annoying when you listen to your iPod that loud when someone else was in the room. I could hear everything. Very rude."

"Shit. Oh God, this cannot be happening!"

She watched him pace the room. "What are you talking about? You just got an amazing grade on a test. Do you want to celebrate by watching me do stuff to people?"

"Helga, don't you realize the seriousness of this situation?"

"Fine, you can get a sundae or something lame. I'm telling you, it could be feh-un."

He stopped in front of her. "Helga, I just cheated on a test."

"You didn't cheat on a test, you just...got help."

"That's cheating."

"It would be cheating if another _person_ helped you, but _I_ clearly am not a person. Loophole."

"Helga, you realize I have to tell someone about this. I have to turn myself in, and that means I'll get a zero, which jeopardizes my chances at getting a good scholarship and going to a good college."

"All that from this? You're telling me that I ruined your future?"

"Yes."

She stared at him for a moment. "College is overrated."

"HELGA!"

"Arnold, _you_ are the one getting in your way. _You _wouldn't let me help you. _You_ are too noble to accept my help in a round-about way."

"Round-about, it's CHEATING!"

"So you are really going to turn yourself in? Of course you are," she answered her own question. She stared at him for a while, a strange look in her eye. He had always been terrible at reading her.

He sat down, feeling exhausted and defeated. "I'm sorry you find my morals and ethics so deplorable."

"I'm sorry you find me so vexatious."

He didn't answer her. He couldn't deny it.

"Now what?"

"Tomorrow I will turn myself in and face the consequences."

"Arnold, you didn't cheat. At least not on purpose."

"It's not right, Helga."

"Neither is this holier-than-thou martyr schtik you got going on. C'mon, Arnold, give yourself a break."

"My mind is made up."

"Then I'll leave you to your thoughts." She moved to the other side of the room, laying on her back and staring out the sunroof.

Sleep did not come easy that night, and Arnold found himself soon in English, explaining that he cheated on the test, although he glossed over the details. His teacher explained that he would receive a zero, leaving the best grade he could receive in the class at a C. He accepted this fate, but he was determined not to let Helga ruin anything else.

She followed him out of the room, having listened to the entire conversation. "Wow, Arnold, just when I think you can't get any less normal, you do something like this. You should be studied: boy who lacks the teenager gene."

"Buzz off, Helga."

"Manly. So, that's settled. Now what?"

"What do you mean, now what?" He was getting good at talking out of the side of his mouth.

"What should we do now? I'm still up for watching me throw stuff at people. You know, it's strange that I can touch inanimate objects, but not people. And anything you throw at me doesn't hit me."

"Helga, I can't think of anything I care about less than the physics of your ghostliness."

"Arnold, it was a mistake. I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry."

"Too late, Helga."

"Arnold--"

"ARNOLD!"

Helga and Arnold both turned to the speaker. "Lila?" they both asked, her with utter disbelief.

"Arnold, I just heard that you cheated on your English test? Is it true?"

"Pry much?" Helga muttered.

"Yeah, I did. But I just turned myself in."

"Oh, Arnold, that's ever so disappointing, although I'm glad to hear that you did the right thing. What happens now?"

"I don't know."

She put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be thinking about you, Arnold. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help."

"Thanks." She left, and Arnold could feel his cheeks redden. He forgot about his audience.

"Lila?! Lila's still around? And you still like her? Jesus Christ! And I thought you were pathetic before."

"I'm not pathetic, Helga. And she's just a friend who cares about me. Unlike some people."

"If that's a shot at me, it's a pretty weak one."

"Right, because you're a cold-hearted witch."

"And what's Lila? A freakin' Care Bear?"

"She's just a friend, Helga. Let it go, though on second thought, why do you care so much?"

"I don't care about you, _she_ bothers me. Always did."

"And I never understood why, and now I really don't care. I'm late for class."

She followed him, but he hardly noticed her. She was there, lurking in the corners in his classes, but she was deep in thought and ignored him. It was the first moment of peace he had had for a few days.

He went to lunch, happier than he had been in days, despite the whole English debacle. He felt light. For whatever reason, he had shut up the ghost, and he planned to figure out what upset her so much.

He walked with his tray full food: water, soup, and a sandwich, toward his normal table. Lila moved in his direction, smiling. He smiled back and thought about what a good person she was, especially in comparison to the girl he had been dealing with.

_Wait, Helga..._

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her beside him. He turned to check and see what she was doing, but suddenly he was on the ground; someone else's lunch had fallen from the table beside him and crashed to the ground. He and Lila slipped, and his tray flew forward.

Lila was on the ground, her white t-shirt now see-through and her skirt above her hips, exposing her underwear. Arnold looked away quickly, but he knew he was the only one. The rest of the cafeteria stared and laughed at her. Friends rushed to her aid, pushing him away as he tried to apologize like a bumbling idiot. They told him he had already done enough, and they helped a sobbing and red-faced Lila from the floor.

He bolted as he watched Lila disappear into a bathroom. He didn't care. He had to get away. He rushed out of the cafeteria, out of the school, and into the busy street outside. He knew she was following him. She was _always_ following him when he wished she would disappear.

"You're cutting school? Are you sure that's wise, given your recent cheating episode?"

"I have to get away from here; actually, get you away from other people."

"It's no big deal, Old Sport."

"Do big deal? You humiliated her! And what did she do to you? Why did you do that, Helga?"

"It was an accident, Arnold!"

"That was no accident, and we both know that."

"What do you want me to say, Arnold? I'm sorry that you are clumsy and tripped on cafeteria food? What can I do to get you to stop looking at me like I'm Frankenstein's monster?"

"Just go away, Helga. You ruined my childhood, can't I have my teenage years in peace? God, I used to think that there was more to you than a bully, that you were just insecure, but I see that's wrong. You're vindictive, mean, and destructive. Why couldn't you have just died? You've done enough damage haunting. Go to hell, literally."

He stepped backwards into the street, trying to get away from her. Her eyes widened as he moved, and she began waving her arms at him. Everything slowed down. He could hear Helga shouting hysterically. The tires screeching. His legs couldn't work. He watched the car come near him. He thought of his life. Of his grandparents...his parents...Gerald...his childhood at PS 118...playing baseball...high school...his first kiss...his crushes...everything he wanted yet to do.

_So this is how it ends..._

* * *

Disclaimer #2: all rights to the cranberries for "zombie."


	3. Into the Dark

disclaimer: all rights to nick and craig barlett

* * *

_How to be Dead_

Chapter 3 - Into the Dark

* * *

For the nth time in just over a week, and the second time that day, Arnold woke on his back with a headache, seeing stars and a bright white light._ Is this heaven? Because that bright light sure is annoying..._

He pondered death. Sure, it would suck, but he might get to see his parents...isn't that what heaven is about? Pure bliss and seeing those you lost? He tried to sit up, but the movement made him dizzy, and his entire body was sore, although his head hurt the most. _Oh God..._ He turned over and retched.

_Ok, so this cannot be heaven. I don't think you can puke in heaven._

"If you get up slowly, you might be able to avoid that," a blunt voice commented.

He struggled to sit up. His whole body felt sore, especially his head, which seemed to be ringing. Helga was speaking to him, although that didn't answer if he was dead or not. She was dead, but she had been haunting him on earth. If he died, then would she be released, her soul finally at peace? _But if I'm dead, why am I still in so much pain?_

"He's alright! He's alright!" a man shouted.

_That's a bit of an understatement._ He sat up to find a small crowd gathered around him. _Funny, the street was empty before._ His eyes searched for Helga. For a moment he feared she too had been hurt, but he quickly remembered her lack of a corporeal form. She was off to the side, watching him with a strange look in her eye. Her face remained frozen in a strange mask as he caught her eye. He gave her a slight smile, but she did not return it.

"What happened?" he asked the man beside him, still feeling very nauseous. The man closest to him said that he had been driving when Arnold stepped into the street. He tried to swerve, but the lost control of the car due to the ice on the street, yet somehow Arnold managed to get out of the way as quickly as he got in the way. Dazed but slowly somewhat comprehending what happened, Arnold turned to Helga. She didn't confirm or deny the tale. She continued to stare at him with a fiery look in her eye, the rest of her face immobile.

She stayed with him as he went to the hospital, although he wasn't sure if this was out of concern or out of necessity. He had yet to discover if he could move around while she was here without her, but she seemed to follow him like a shadow when she appeared. The doctor confirmed he had a minor concussion from hitting the sidewalk, but that was all. His grandparents came to get him in the old Packard. His grandma spent the entire time saying it was fate punishing him for skipping school, and his grandpa said he hoped it had fixed whatever problem Arnold had had with his head over the past week. Helga sat beside him, quiet and acting as if she was afraid to move too quickly, or even move at all. She followed him up to his bedroom and perched in the windowsill, sitting like a statue. He watched her, concerned more about her behavior than his head, as he slipped into sleep, trying to dissect the puzzle of the day.

It was still dark when he woke up several hours later. Helga was in the same spot, illuminated by the streetlights outside. She was still staring out the window to the street below. He watched for a few minutes before she interrupted him by reminding him of his manners. He quickly apologized.

"Not much has changed, has it?" he asked.

"No, but I kinda like it that way. It reminds me of other times." A pause. "How's your head?"

"I'll live...by the way, I haven't thanked you for saving my life. How did you do it, anyways?"

"I -"

"I mean, I can't touch you. Can you touch me? Or you can touch inanimate objects...did you move the car or something? Does being a ghost mean that you have superpowers, or something? Are you really a guardian angel (albeit a very annoying one)?"

"Arnold, what happened-"

"Oh, God, the last thing I said to you was 'Go to Hell.' Helga, how can I repay you? Please, tell me. I'll do anything."

"Arnold, there is no debt. Seriously, I-"

"Helga, you saved my life. I owe you my life. What can I do?"

"Arnold-"

"Just tell me something-"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT IT!" She composed her self. "It makes me sick to think about it."

There was such tenderness in her voice, soft and quiet, so unlike her usual rough bark. It was like a caress. Her face was open and vulnerable. She looked a little depressed and sick herself. "Do you mean that?"

She watched him for a moment before her expression changed. Once again, her face was hard and closed. "Well, your brains and guts everywhere would make me want to throw up, even though that's impossible. Anyways, if you were gone, who would I bug?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Point taken." Same old Helga. The vulnerable, honest, caring Helga never stayed around long, although he had always wanted to get to know that girl much better. Still, it made the moments she did act caring more sweet and satisfying, as they were few and far between.

"Seriously, please, don't talk about it." She smirked. "Go back to hating me. That I can deal with. Be rude and nasty. Tell me to go to hell. Argue with me. This is a good thing we got going."

"I don't hate you."

"Well, then that's some good acting you've been showing off lately."

"C'mon, though, you kinda deserved it."

"Humph." She folded her arms and looked away.

He smiled. This definitely was the Helga he remembered. "I never _hated_ you. Sure, you annoyed the crap out of me a lot, but I never hated you."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome."

She looked at him for a moment before speaking again. "So what now?"

"I dunno. I guess what I should have done in the beginning."

"Which is..."

"Find out why you are here." A pause. "I know you didn't want to talk about it, but do you remember how you died? Anything? You said something about an airport."

She looked away, again people watching through his window. "Did I say airport? Now I'm seeing a bus station...and a McDonald's."

"Are you lying?"

"Probably."

"Were you murdered?"

"Dunno."

"Plane crash?"

"Still don't know."

"Attacked by wild boars?

"No. And that's...sectionalist, or something. South Dakota isn't just some crazy, barren, backwater land where animals attack wondering, nomadic humans. There aren't even any boars in South Dakota. They are further south, and most are in the Eastern Hemisphere."

"How do you know the habitual ranges of wild boars?"

She shrugged. "Swing and a miss, Arnold. Seriously though, don't you get tired of me telling you 'no, I don't remember.'"

"No." He grinned. "Did you eat a strawberry?"

"No--what?"

"You're allergic to strawberries, aren't you?" he asked, still smiling despite the somber subject of the conversation.

"How do you know that?"

"It probably came up at one time or another. So did you eat a strawberry?"

"I don't remember a strawberry. Besides, I think they were out of season then."

"HA! So you don't know how, but you know _when_?"

She rolled her eyes. "Think about it. I saw you in December and it's now February. Are strawberries in season?"

"No, but you could have eaten some that were frozen, or imported."

"Just give it up."

"What about the in between time? Between you dying and coming here? Or did you just die? I would have heard about it, though...from someone...Phoebe. Do you think she knows? Or anyone else?" he asked himself more than her.

A crack in the mask. "How is Phoebe?"

"She seems to be having a tough time lately..." He stared at Helga. "Though I think I understand why now."

She said nothing, but once again looked away. Arnold sat up in bed to get a better look at her. "You and Phoebe were still friends, right?"

"Yeah, but I think I may have made a mistake before...you know...croaked. Kicked the bucket. Bought the farm. Bit the dust. Pushed up daisies. Cashed in the chips."

"You passed away...can't you take this seriously?"

"No. Does that bother you?"

"Yes."

"You were just making fun of how I may have died."

"Well...I...er...sorry."

She folded her arms. "Well, it bothers me that it bothers you. It's _my _deal, Arnold, not yours. _My _life, and _my_ death." She narrowed her eyes and glared at him for a moment. "Don't even think about it."

"About what?"

"You know. I can _see_ your plan forming in that ridiculously formed shape head of yours. Don't you _dare_ try to find out how I died. It doesn't bother me, and to be honest, I really don't care to know."

"I do."

"Since when do you have such an avid interest in the macabre? Let it go."

"Helga-"

"I tell you what, you drop this, and I'll tutor you in English so your grade doesn't drop anymore and you can quit whining about how you're not going to get into college."

"Have you forgotten that it was _your_ fault I got in the school mess to begin with?"

"I believe it was your stupid, noble personality and bloated pride that go in your way there, Shortman."

His cold eye met an even icier one, and he cracked into soft laughter after a few minutes of trying to stare her down.

"Why are you laughing?" she demanded.

"Because you looked how I imagine I looked." He calmed himself. "You know, there are times when I think that you and I have a lot more in common than one would think."

"You and I have anything in common? Please. Except for a mutual disdain for each other, I think you're off the mark."

"I think you're wrong, and you're just afraid to admit that one: we are similar, and two: you like me more than you will admit."

"I won't admit it because I don't like you! You're a Football Headed putz!"

"See, denial."

"Lord, Hair Boy, shut up! Look, are you going to take my deal or not? Otherwise, I'm going to get bored with you and start up with my tricks again."

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?" she dared.

He watched her for a second. It was a pattern of Helga's, to become soft and almost human and relatable, and _likable_, and then as quick as the change came it passed, and she was cold, hard, and mean again.

Yet he knew her. She had truly been scared earlier in the day when she thought he had been hurt. It had been more than guilt, but pure concern and relief that he was fine. She realized how much pain she had caused him, what a mess she had made, and, although she hadn't said the words, he knew she was sorry and would not deliberately hurt him again. He knew his path. He knew how to repay her for saving his life. He knew how to set her free.

"Deal."

He'd find out how she died, and, if necessary, bring that person to justice.

* * *

It was February, and the days, although getting longer, were still too short and grey for Arnold's taste. Hours were spent in the hell that was school, only to be followed by other hells, including work, homework, and the social awkwardness that is high school. Helga floated in and out, giving him an unusual amount of space when she was around, and often his days were so filled that often he didn't notice she was there. It was quite a change from the days before.

He had gotten what he wanted, but he wasn't so sure he liked it.

She was calmer, that was true, although she was always ready with a sharp comment or a sarcastic remark. Occasionally, he noticed her teasing was in light fun rather than her usual wickedness, like his own was for her, but those moments were few and far between.

She kept her part of the deal, helping him with English, as their teacher moved from Shakespeare to _The Great Gatsby_, which, to be honest, he didn't need much help from her on, but it was still nice to discuss literature with someone outside of a classroom. She was particularly fun to watch as she was roused with passion over the characters. Gatsby seemed to be a particular favorite of hers, and she hated the Buchanans with a passion.

"That's the one thing I don't get about Gatsby. How can a man so full of love, so filled with passion that he is consumed by it, be in love with someone so vapid and selfish as Daisy."

"Isn't Gatsby selfish himself? Daisy is married-"

"To a lying, cheating oaf."

"But he still covets her."

"He loved her first!"

"But that doesn't mean that he has a permanent claim on her love. Gatsby breaks laws to make himself the man he thinks Daisy wants. Nick may think he's better than the rest of them, but I don't think so. Maybe more passionate, but he made as many bad choices."

"Gatsby's only real crime is living in the past. He is a man in love, hopeless so. He is a man reaching for the moon, happiest when he was across the lake from her. When she was close enough to touch, to meet, but there was no interaction, so he couldn't fail. He could just hold onto the dream. Can you really judge him for that?"

Arnold shrugged and smiled. While he had caught on to all her points, he enjoyed her help nonetheless. It was as if she had opened a little window into her soul, allowing him to peak in for just a moment to see her in her element, as her true self.

They spent hours together, although much of the time was spent with her reading and him studying. When she did talk, however, she continued to provide a running commentary on his day, although she did it to amuse instead of aggravate as the days went by. He was finding it much easier to hide his enjoyment, although a laugh and a smile did often leak through. Most people, however, ignored him, since he had certified himself as part crazy during the days before.

His favorite time of the day had become the evening, right before he went to bed. Helga always seemed to be around then, when he was tired. He spent more of the time asking her questions, although most of them she seemed to sidestep. He asked her about the afterlife, but she responded that she didn't remember anything but darkness.

"So, tell me about South Dakota. I don't really know much about it," he said one night after failing once again to get a peak into the great beyond, as she called it when she felt particularly ghastly.

"To be honest, neither do I. And besides, talking about that is about as boring as listening to you, and, since I'm such a charm, I'll spare you that pain."

"Thanks." He fidgeted in the dark, his curiosity overcoming his fatigue. "So, who was your first kiss?"

"That's invasive."

"Just answer."

"You. Yours?"

He smiled to himself, glad she couldn't see him in the darkness. "You." She didn't say anything, so he continued on. "Any boyfriends?"

"Nope."

"Friends in South Dakota?"

"None."

"None?"

"Don't make it sound depressing, Hair Boy. I am an island, and proud of it."

"Your worst day?"

"Any day with you."

"Your best day?"

"Any day without you."

"What about your parents? Wasn't that a bad day? When they decided to get divorced?"

"Am I on a fucking gameshow? What about _your_ parents?"

"My parents..." he stopped, quickly becoming choked up. Besides, if she didn't want to share and open up, he didn't want to either. At least not about this.

"See, not so much fun answering questions, is it?"

"Fine. What's your favorite color?" he asked after a few moments of silence.

"Black. What's yours?"

"Black's not a color. It's all colors."

"If you're mixing paint, maybe. Black is the absence of color. White is all colors."

"Well, Miss Know-it-All, black still isn't a color."

"Fine. Pink," They said together. "You are so predictable," he said.

"Humph."

"You are. Or maybe just to those who know you well."

"Oh, and you know me well? Listen, buddy, you don't know anything about me."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"You are so irritating! What is this, payback? Look, buddy, I already apologized for acting like a jerk, but acting like a jerk works for me. It's a very bad look on you, so stop."

"It's not payback. I'm just trying to get to know you."

She sighed. "Arnold, you don't want to get to know me. Trust me."

She said nothing more after that.

He slowly learned more and more about her, although it was just surface level stuff, her likes and dislikes. He was hoping to find some clues as to what kind of person she had become and what had happened to her.

That project, however, was seeing less results. As he had lost complete contact with Helga, along with nearly everyone else, he had no idea where to begin his search. His only clues where the two month window between when he saw Helga in December and the moment she appeared as a ghost to help him figure out exactly what day she died and that she mentioned remembering an airport. He was glad that she had told him that before he mentioned trying to find out what happened. He had an odd feeling that she knew more than she was letting on, but for some reason she didn't want to tell him. He was beginning to fear the worst.

He started by looking for information in Hillwood. Given that Bob Pataki still had a very predominant business in town (he had branched out from beepers to other electronics, as the technology had faded into relative obscurity), he figured the death of his daughter would have brought some press. He found, however, nothing about Helga or the Patakis in the Hillwood papers, except for information on her parents very public and very ugly divorce years earlier and Bob's wedding, which took place late last year.

He recalled Helga mentioning South Dakota when he ran into her in December (he pushed down the nausea building in his throat about the anxieties he had felt watching her leave...only to have her die sometime later. Clearly something had been wrong then). With no clues as to where to start, he was unable to locate anything about Helga or her mother in South Dakota. It was as if Helga had disappeared into thin air after her parents' divorce and after she left Hillwood. He hadn't asked her anymore questions out of fear of her wrath, and he felt the one who could help him the most, Phoebe, would be off limits since she seemed to have taken Helga's death so bad. Of course, seeing how his other former classmates had reacted, perhaps he was in assuming she had been down and depressed over Helga's death. He had no idea _who_ else to ask, since no one sans Phoebe had heard from Helga for years (and he was just guessing in regards to Phoebe). He asked kids who when to PS 118, but he found that none had kept in touch with Helga. He also found that most of him didn't want to talk about her, or cared very little. Arnold began to wonder if they knew she had died.

Furthermore, there was the problem of Helga herself, who, although she seemed to be around a bit less, he had yet to figure out what made her appear or disappear. And he was sure that he would be less than pleased if she found out what he was doing.

And so he found himself sitting at his computer on a Friday night, working on trying to find out more about Helga, determined to discover her mystery. He had started collecting notes and typing them, but they were meager at best. He had been working for several hours, finding nothing new, before she appeared suddenly at his shoulder.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing," he said, quickly shutting his laptop.

"Fine. Be that way. All secretiveand crap. Like I give a damn what you are up to." She leaned forward. Arnold blushed as he realized that, had she been solid and alive, her hair would have falling on his shoulder, brushing his cheek. She was right next to him, and although he could sense her beside him (and see her out of the corner of his eye), he _felt_ nothing. She couldn't touch him either.

"Isn't it Friday?"

Her questioned pulled him out of his reverie. "What?"

"It's Friday, right? That's what the calendar says. I haven't been around in a few days so I can't keep track."

"Where do you go when you are 'away'?"

"I dunno. I just assume time has passed because the time has changed, and you are wearing different clothes and doing something different."

He eyed her, still believing that she was hiding things from him. "Yeah, it's Friday."

"So what are you doing here? Why aren't you out partying or coming up with more lame handshakes with Gerald?"

"I dunno. Now that you're here I figured you and I could just watch a movie or something." To him, it seemed like a plan for a good night.

Something flashed over her face, but it quickly passed. "You're telling me that you would rather hang out with someone dead than go to a party or something with real, live people? And me, of all ghosts?"

"There are more of you hanging out?" he answered automatically, but he was thrown. The answer to her question scared him. He had to get away, get away from whatever was happening. "Good point. I'm heading out...I guess you will be to, right?"

She shrugged. "I'm not really a party sort of girl, you know? Besides, I think it's time to see if we can be separated or not."

Disappointment rushed through his veins. He hated parties just as much; Gerald was usually the only person he really cared to talk to. Although he had many acquaintances, he was Arnold's only true friend, save whatever Helga was becoming. He kept in touch with few of his friends from high school, although she shared a good word or two with them in the hallways at school. As a result, he had gotten bored with parties early in high school, turning into tiresome affairs which were indistinguishable from the last, but he hoped to have Helga's colorful commentary to keep him entertained. He reluctantly left her, which was possible, both relieved and depressed to be away to be away from her company, and scared as to what that might mean.

After calling Gerald, Arnold found himself in a crowded apartment a few blocks away from his house. The usual groups of people were there, but none of them attracted his attention. The liquor table, however, did, and he stayed there for a good while, hoping to hide from his more confusing thoughts for at least a few hours.

It didn't work.

He sat down and watched others move around him. He watched drunk girls and the boys chasing them. He watched soon-to-be frat boys play beer pong. Drugs being passed around. People making out in corners, and probably doing more behind closed doors. He didn't judge them. He didn't care enough.

He wanted to be at home. With her. A companion that, although often annoying and tiresome, at least was enjoyable without being somewhat degrading. She was intelligent, sometimes caring. He saw that. He saw none of that here. At least none that caught his attention, sparked his curiosity, or made him feel at home. Nothing here made him feel like himself and nothing else.

"Arnold, there you are!" Gerald said, flopping on the couch beside him and smelling strongly like beer and perfume. "What are you doing on the couch. Join the party."

"I'm drunk. Isn't that enough?"

"My poor, shy friend, we need to get you a lady. Oi!" he yelled at a group of girls. A few turned around and smiled.

Arnold glared at them and at Gerald. "No. No lady."

Gerald frowned. "Arnold, what are you thinking? Those girls are cute!"

"Hey-ya," he muttered.

"Did you just say 'Hey ya'? Dude, that song's been out for years...it's not even cool anymore...Or maybe it's so old and lame it's cool again...you might be on to something."

"Helga!"

"What?"

"Helga. I was thinking about Helga."

"And why are you thinking of Helga G. Pataki?"

"Not about her. About what _happened_ to her."

"Uh, Arnold, she died. Like weeks ago."

His words snapped him out of his stupor. "You knew? When? How? How do you know and I just found out about a week ago?"

"It happened over break...I think. You were messed up with pneumonia, remember?" He shrugged. "I mean, she's been gone for years. Not much was said about it. I asked Phoebe, and she confirmed it, but she didn't say anything else. She seemed like she didn't want to talk about it."

"How'd she die?"

"I don't know, man, I never got details. No one did. And to be honest, you are killing my buzz right now."

So he would have to talk to Phoebe. She seemed to be the only one with answers. He left soon after, apologizing to Gerald for being such a bore.

She was gone when he got home. He had hoped she would be waiting for him, with insults and comments about his drunkenness. Instead the room was empty, an open book on the couch the only sign that she had been there.

The next day, Arnold headed out early (Helga had yet to reappear, and he knew his time was limited) to Phoebe's. Thankfully, the Hyerdahls lived in the same home they had during Phoebe's childhood. He dreaded talking to her, but no one else seemed to have answers to the puzzle. She was his last hope.

He knocked on the door, and for a moment he thought no one was home. As he turned to leave, he heard the door open. A small, bespectacled girl appeared at the door.

"Arnold?" Phoebe asked, surprised to see him on her doorstep. They hadn't spoken much in years...since Helga moved, to be exact..

"Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

He was taken aback by her slight rudeness, although it was somewhat to be expected. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Her eyebrows rose and threatened to invade her hairline. "I can't say I'm not surprised, Arnold. It's been a long time since you and I have talked alone. I'm flabbergasted as to what we could possibly talk about."

"Helga," he stated bluntly.

Phoebe stared at him blankly. For a moment, he thought she would turn him away. She finally spoke. "Come in."

* * *

A/N: on the literary references, and full author's note, see my homepage.


	4. Speaker for the Dead

Disclaimer: All characters and rights (with exception of the few original characters) to Craig Bartlett and Nick.

_

* * *

How to be Dead_

Chapter 4 - Speaker for the Dead

* * *

Phoebe led him into a curiously decorated living room, where East met West, matching the young girl's unique heritage. She gestured him to sit down and asked him if he wanted anything to eat or drink. After the basic pleasantries were covered, her tone changed. "Why do you want to know anything about Helga?" she asked, her icy voice cutting through his insides, an odd tone coming from the normally cheery young girl.

He recovered quickly, ignoring the nerves filling up his insides and concentrating on his ends. "I can't explain. All I know is that you seem to be the only who knows anything about her and her death."

"That's because I'm the only one who cared."

Another twist of the knife. "You're not the only one," he said softly.

"Oh, suddenly you do? Why the abrupt change of heart, Arnold?"

"I just found out, actually. I was...incapacitated when she passed."

Her eyes fluctuated from the ground to Arnold's face for a few minutes.

"Please, Phoebe. You know I did care about her. I just wanted to know what happened."

She muttered something incomprehensible.

"What?"

Her answer did not surprise him. In a soft voice she explained that no one knew how she died, just that she had a few days before Christmas. No one even knew where she was buried, save her family. It was all a mystery.

"Didn't Bob bury her? Doesn't he know anything? Plus, the guy has one of the biggest appliance stores in the city and is a notorious ass. Everyone knows him. Wouldn't the death of his daughter be in the papers? At least in the obituaries?"

She shrugged.

He processed the information. "How do you know she died before Christmas?"

"Helga and I were supposed to get together after Christmas to exchange gifts and catch up. I hadn't seen her in five years, you know. I was surprised when I heard she was coming to Hillwood, to be honest. It didn't make much sense. Helga and I had remained in correspondence, and she never mentioned that ever _wanted_ to come back, and I assumed that it wasn't feasible for her to, seeing that she had no means to return, and no one to return to, save..."

"Save who?"

"Uh, save me, I suppose."

He nodded, afraid to say anything that may stop her from sharing her tale. While she spoke, his mind began to wonder once again about the life Helga led during her diaspora, and why she would suddenly return to Hillwood.

Phoebe continued. "So she had told me that she was going to be staying with her sister-"

"Olga? But Helga hates Olga. Why didn't she stay with her dad?"

Phoebe shrugged. "I don't know. I figured Bob's new wife didn't like her or something. She never talked to me about her dad, so I have no idea what terms they were on. To be honest, Helga and I didn't talk much about her family...she tended to ask more about me."

"That doesn't sound like Helga. Not that she was a bad person, but she could be--"

"Selfish? Narcissistic? Egotistical?"

"Well, yes."

Another shrug. "I know. I decided that her parent's divorce and the move made her grow up; or, and more likely, she was blocking it out of her mind and avoiding deeper issues. Anyways, back to the original tale, she called from Olga's when she got into town. I called her sister's when Helga didn't call to confirm our plans, and she said that Helga had passed away, and that was all. No explanation. No information on viewings or funerals. Nothing. I searched the newspapers, but I found no information on her death. Still haven't." She sighed. "I don't even know exactly what day she died. I just know it was sometime during Christmas break, before the 28th, which was when I called Olga."

Arnold tried to remember month of December, which he had tried to forget as much as possible. He had spent most of the break in the hospital, as his health deteriorated. Maybe she had even been at the same hospital as him...dying so close to where he lay healing. The thought made him shudder.

"Arnold? Are you cold?"

"No, I'm just...bothered."

"Understandable. I get like that a lot too."

"I'm sorry, Phoebe. You cared for and knew Helga better than anyone."

She gave him a sad smile. "I think you're right on one, Arnold, but not the other."

"What do you mean?"

"I just think that there is someone out there that cared for Helga more, and in a far different way, than I ever could or did. Although I did care for her."

"Who? Maybe that person could help me, er, us."

"No, that person knows as much as we do. And even less about their own feelings regarding her and her death."

He stood to leave, his head becoming confused as Phoebe shifted from concrete facts to enigmatic phrases. "I should go, but thank you. And if you ever need to talk..."

"I've not yet finished, Arnold."

He sat back down, watching the little figure carefully. She in turn watched him with an odd gleam in her eye.

"About two weeks after I called Olga, I received several large packages from South Dakota, Mrs. Pataki to be exact. She wrote a note thanking me for being a good friend to her daughter, and that she felt Helga would like me to have the contents of the boxes, which were too beautiful to be destroyed. It seemed that in death she finally realized who her daughter was and what she was capable of."

"Better late than never, I suppose," he muttered, feeling cold guilt seep through his veins.

"She said that Helga would have wanted me to have them, but, to be honest, I've never opened the packages. I felt they didn't belong to me."

"Because they were still hers?"

Phoebe gave him another heartbreaking smile and shook her head. "No, because they were _yours_."

He frowned, unable to understand what Phoebe was talking about. He told her as much, and asked what was in the mysterious packages from Helga that were meant for him.

"Her journals."

* * *

Despite the curiosity that overflowed within him like a volcano erupting, spitting anxiety and excitement like ash over his psyche, he avoided the boxes like the plague. He hid the packages in his closet, fearful Helga would recognize them. To further mask his actions, he found an old, large book in the living room which he hallowed out. He had no idea if Helga had the journals boxed up when she moved to South Dakota, but he knew she would recognize the books on sight. He made sure that when she did appear he didn't leave her alone in his room; he didn't trust her to not go snooping into his life and stuff (he swallowed the bitter taste of the double-standard). Still, he refrained from opening the boxes; It felt too much like spying on her life, respecting her right to privacy even though she was dead.

He hoped to find out about her through other methods. Helga had continued to enjoy the sound of her own voice, monopolizing the conversation when they did talk. Her actions reminded him of Phoebe's words and further confused him as to Helga's current level of maturity and narcissism and her character overall. To watch her unmolested, he focused on studying when she was around, fearing other activities, particularly those that involved heavy conversation from him would betray his motives. As annoying as it seemed to be, since she loved to retell and even reenact some of Arnold's more embarrassing moments from his childhood (her favorite being a certain dark memory that included a bunny suit), he hoped that she would leave small hints about her life that would give him clues to how she died.

So far, he had nothing but hurt pride to show for his efforts. Helga seemed to evade his deeper questions, returning to her favorite pastimes: teasing and annoying him (which happened eighty-five percent of the time) and long, passionate rants on anything from literature to the width of sidewalks (he was beginning to worry about the amount of time she spent looking out of windows). It seemed he had two choices: read her diaries or visit Olga.

One drizzly afternoon, well-rested and free of all spirits, Arnold felt that the time had come to make a decision. he rationalized that in order to help her get to the afterlife now, he had to find out the mystery surrounding her death. The ends, he felt, would justify the means. He would, however, do it with as much honor and respect towards her that he could manage. He put himself in Helga's shoes, wondering which would make her madder: reading her deepest thoughts or visiting her sister. Realizing that he still had no idea how her mind functioned and even less of an idea as to how she would respond, he did what he feared less.

He flipped through the journals quickly to find those that began after Helga moved away, having experienced and noted most of her history in Hillwood. Although the last part of her tale was murky, he felt that it would be best to learn about her parents' divorce after the fact; her mind would probably be less subjective after the fact. He knew this was most like futile; if she wouldn't talk about it to Phoebe there was a chance she could be in such denial she wouldn't write about it, but he was also more curious to find out about her life after Hillwood.

The collection was massive, with volumes spanning from age seven to seventeen. He went through three large boxes before he reached the first one from South Dakota. The writing style varied according to her mood. Mostly it seemed to have a staccato beat, particularly when writing about her family or her classmates. Occasionally there was the mention of a mysterious "him," and the tone of her writing would change from fury to eloquence, language that he could scarcely believe could be written by someone so angry. Helga seemed to almost worship this person, expressing her devotion in a way that made Arnold feel both guilty for reading and jealous that he had never felt so strongly. Even if he had, he never would be able to express it as such.

After reading the journals, he tried to grasp the story of Helga G. Pataki. After her parents' divorce (which he already knew rough details on) she and her mother moved to South Dakota to live with Helga's grandmother and aunt. The grandmother died soon after, and the two sisters and the young girl lived together at odds. Miriam's sister, described by Helga as a "tea-totaling, Bible-beating, bat-crazy evil woman" who believed Miriam would go to hell for her drinking and that Helga would for her various unChristian tendencies, particularly her lack of respect for her parents and authority figures in general (Helga actually complied a list of all her "bad" characteristics that would place her in Hell; she seemed to be proud and unrepentant of them). Miriam continued to be incapacitated most of her days, leaving Helga under the sharp eye of her aunt. This woman, although through a different means, was nearly as brutal as Bob, although he had occasionally shown signs of being a decent human being. She criticized all of Helga's qualities and going even so far as to blame the "vile, sinful creature" for her mother's alcoholism and her father's apathy. "How could a father be proud of such a malicious, ugly, and stupid girl! A daughter should be the sunshine of a father's life, and you, my dear, gave that man nothing but hell. And your behavior caused your mother to collapse into sin herself! Oh, if you were my daughter, such behaviors would have been stomped out of you at a young age. Now, it seems too late for even Christ himself to save you." Helga wrote that despite all her threats, her aunt continued to accost her and try to change her. Arnold was left to wonder what was worse: being ignored or verbally abused.

For years Helga lived this way, living a life where the only one to hear her true thoughts and feelings was an inanimate notebook. She didn't make any new friends, or if she did she made no mention of them. She seemed to scorn everyone around her. She occasionally mentioned Phoebe and her family, but she was the only one person from back home. She seemed to be beaten, a candle extinguished before its flame had time to truly shine. Even in her anger she seemed to lose her old spark. The only flourishes of the spunky, fiery girl he remembered occurred when she wrote of "him," a thought to keep her mind strong, free, and vibrant whilst in her dark, iron cage.

So it continued, page after page, book after book, until shortly after her sixteenth birthday Helga began to write of another "him." Arnold could differentiate between the two not just from past to present but also by physical features and personality. For example, the old "him" had "cornflower hair" and "eyes of the emerald isle," a good angel, while the new "him," raven-haired, dark and capricious, seemed to be "an angel from the underworld." Arnold learned his name, his character, and his affect on her, which seemed to affect _him_. No longer was she forced to cower in sorrow--things got lighter. Her writing changed to poetry and long passages filled with expressions of love. Nothing, however, was concrete; her writing was filled with symbols, her own private code describing feelings but not tangible events.

Arnold felt a strange heaviness in his chest as he read about the boys, a flame running through his veins. It was stronger than being jealous over her eloquence; he assumed it was due to the extremely personal writings that he was now reading behind a friend's back. His curiosity kept his eyes moving, reading the words with as much speed as a parched dog lapping up water.

And then those passages stopped with as much warning as they began. The writing turned to darkness and anger, symbolism gone. There were no more mentions of either "him" or any one else outside of her family. Several pages had been ripped out, and all that was a available was a cryptic note, "I shall never speak of him again..." and a quote he had read somewhere before: "O that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!"

"Hey Football Head, what's shaking?"

He jumped. "Helga, hi."

She sat down beside him. He scooted away and put the book down. She eyed him for a few minutes. "What is wrong with you? You're acting weird."

"No I'm not...not weirder than normal, right?"

More staring. "Since when have you become such a bookworm? All I see you do is read. And that same damn book, too!" She looked around him. "What are you reading, anyways?"

"Nothing."

"_Secrets of Snails: A Tale of Landscape Change. _Sounds riveting."

He stared at the spine and mentally hit himself in the head.

"So what are you really reading?"

"Huh?"

"Nerd that you are, and science geek on top of that, do you really believe that _I_ believe you are reading that book? No, there's something else there. What is it?"

"Why do you think something else is in there?"

"Let's just say I have experience, ok? Now let me see the damn book."

She again tried to take the book, but he snatched it up and held it close to his body, safe from her intangible grasp. "There's nothing here. I'm reading about snails. It's fascinating, really--"

"I bet. Is it porn?"

"WHAT?!"

"Porn, Football Head. Please tell me that you have seen porn and know what it is. Otherwise you have problems beyond what I can fix."

He felt his face change colors rapidly, from white to red to nearly purple. "I know what porn is, Helga."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, out of respect for your privacy I'll ask no more about when or where...except what are you looking at? Tasteful artsy-fartsy stuff, or really nasty stuff?"

"Helga, it's not porn!"

"I'll take that as a nasty. Good for you, Arnoldo. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Helga!"

"Fine, than what is it?"

"I can't tell you."

"Because you're embarrassed? I'm a woman of the new millennium, Arnold. I am fully aware of sex and everything that goes with it."

More curiosity. "Because..." he asked, ignoring the salt her words put in his already guilt-induced wounds.

"Internet," she said simply.

"Ah."

"Forget about sex for a minute--"

"Can you?"

"Whatever. You seriously can't tell me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"Because you are sworn to secrecy and will be killed on spot?" She crossed her fingers. "Cause that's what I'm hoping for."

"No, Helga. I just can't. And I don't know why you are so bothered. _You_ haven't told me everything. _You're _keeping secrets from me."

"Like what?"

"Like...what happened after you left Hillwood."

"I don't want to talk about it. Besides, not a lot. Boring stuff...though maybe I should tell you. Payback for having to watch your ridiculously boring life."

"Helga, I've almost been chucked out of school for cheating and killed since you've been around."

She shrugged.

"What about your parents divorce?"

She flinched. "It's too personal to talk about. Lots of pain, inner turmoil, blah, blah, blah. And on that note, _you_ didn't talk about _your_ parents."

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You are really going to talk about it?"

"We are friends now, aren't we?"

She watched him, a strange look passing over her face.

"I mean, if that's ok with you..."

"No. Friends. Right. Anywho, your parents."

"I don't know what happened to them. I have this." He walked over to the bookshelf (taking the other book with him) and grabbed his father's journal. "This was my dad's. It's his journal."

She thumbed through it. "So, what do you know about them?"

"They loved each other. They loved me."

"Little happy family. Right. So what happened? Why is this little happy family no more?"

He shrugged off her insensitivity. "They were adventurers. They traveled the world, exotic places, trying to make a difference. Dad was a doctor, Mom a botanist." He sighed. "I was a toddler when they left. One last mission to help people deep in the jungle, which was where they met. No one has heard from them since."

She read for a few minutes. He watched her through unfocused eyes, deep in his own thoughts. "Your parents really loved each other, didn't they? And you."

"Yes. At least that's how it comes across, doesn't it?"

"Do you hate them for leaving you?"

"No. It was their job. And they didn't mean for it to end the way it did. It was fate, or the universe, or God, or whatever. Not them."

She nodded, continuing to read. "Did you ever want to go look for them? Get answers?"

He smiled. "I was going to, once. When we were still at PS 118. I got a business that worked with my parents to sponsor a trip, but it got cancelled. Disputes between management."

"Stupid suits. Didn't they realize how important it was for you to get answers? Closure on the whole story that kept you riveted for years?"

"Clearly not." Pause. "So, I told you my sob story. What about yours?"

"There's not much to tell, especially after your story."

"You promised, Helga."

"I didn't, but whatever. Bob left Miriam and tried to give her the shaft out of everything, the house, money, assets. All he wanted to give her was me. So she fought back; you know, she's not so useless when she's determined, and when she's not..."

"Drinking?" he finished.

"Bingo. So it went back and forth for a year, or two, I forget exactly how long. Bob trying to go after Miriam's inheritance, some crappy farm in South Dakota, Miriam just trying to get enough money to get by. She also wanted Bob to have some custody with me, but he refused. Finally they settled, but Miriam got nearly nothing, and Bob had to pay ridiculously low child support. And lucky me, _I_ had to go to some of the stupid hearings and testify, basically talking about how awful both my parents were. But, the dust settled, and Bob continued to run his stupid appliances, cell phone, and beeper empire while I lived with Miriam in exile."

"Why did he leave?"

"I dunno. They never said."

They sat in an awkward silence. "Anyways, everyone's got their own story. It's not like I'm a victim or anything. Everyone goes through tough shit."

"Yeah. You know, I envied you as a child," he said after a pause.

"Me? Why?"

"Because you had a family. A _real_ family. You know, parents and a sister. I wanted that."

"Hopefully you grew out of that. Arnold, my family wasn't a very good family. Sure, we had all the ingredients, but when you looked carefully, it was just a hot mess. I did envy you, though, because all though your family wasn't conventional, it was a family."

He smiled. "Yeah, I suppose."

"So..."

"So..."

"So what about you? What have you been doing since I left? You keep asking about me...yet another sign of your double standards...or whatever."

"But you didn't tell."

"Because there is _nothing_ to tell."

He knew that wasn't exactly true, so he took the bait. "Not much. School about the same, except English, though I have you to thank for that."

"You're welcome."

"Humph. As for friends, Gerald is the only one I'm still close with. I mean, I'm on friendly terms with everyone. You saw Lila the other day."

"Yeah, that was a real treat. 'Ever so lovely.'"

"Helga, you made her cry."

"I still maintain that was your fault, Hair Boy."

"Helga!"

"Arnoldo, just continue. No sense in starting another fight."

She was right. He had other things to talk about. "So that's basically it."

"Sounds pretty boring."

"To some. But didn't you say your life was boring too?"

She sighed. "God, aren't we two dull peas in a pod."

"It's not so bad, is it?"

"Depends. Are you lonely?"

"Not really. Were you?"

"I prefer my own company. I am a rock, and island."

"That sounds lonely. And you seem like deep down you crave emotional attachment. Wasn't there anyone you cared about? A boy, or anyone?"

She eyed him carefully before responding coldly, "This conversation is over." And so it was, as she didn't talk to him for the rest of the day. Unable to continue reading due to guilt, Arnold watched television until she disappeared and turned in.

He was more careful about talking to Helga, who, bright as she was, had figured out that he was up to something, although he was sure that she didn't know exactly what (if she did there would be hell to pay). She built up her walls once again, and he decided that the only way to get to know the real Helga, the one she didn't let anyone see, was through her journals.

He continued, slowly emptying the boxes. The last journal told how her plans to move away for college, which she had wrote of with some hope before, were thwarted. For some reason, she seemed dead-set on remaining with her mother, which Arnold thought relatively out of character for the selfish Helga. She had come through for her family in the past, notably saving Olga from marrying a con-artist, but he could not imagine what would cause her to sacrifice the chance at freedom that she so desperately craved.

After several days and many interruptions by the appearance of the author, Arnold finished the last journal, completed in November, leaving him with more questions than answers. He had found no clues to help him. Why did Helga suddenly return to Hillwood for Christmas after being gone for years? She hadn't mentioned Bob or Olga at all. Why did she decide to abandon college? Who was the mysterious first boy she loved, and what happened to the second?

He was pondering the questions one afternoon as he headed home after school. He arrived to find his room in disarray. Panicking, he noticed the journals had been gone through, as had his snail book. His desk was a mess, drawers and clothes lying everywhere. _Had Helga been here? Did she know? _He quickly packed the journals up, hoping to find some way to make them disappear and find a way to explain to Helga how physical copies of her thoughts ended up in his room. At the moment, she was no where to be find, but that didn't mean she wasn't lurking around somewhere, waiting to unleash her fury on him.

A knock at the door. "Arnold! Jeez Louise! What happened in your room? It looks like the Battle of Bunker Hill here. You know, without the dead bodies."

"Hi Grandpa. I'm actually not sure what happened."

"How can you not know what happened to your room? Are you pulling a Pookie on me?"

"No, honestly, I don't..."

"Hey Gramps! You gonna fix this toilet here?" Ernie called from below.

"I wouldn't have to fix it if you wouldn't plug it up!"

A squat, plump man appeared at the door. "It's not my fault your plumbing can't handle my dietary choices. Jesus, Kokoshka did a number on your room."

"Oskar?"

"Yeah, I saw him coming down earlier, mumbling something about you being a selfish little boy who keeps his money from the poor."

"Kokoshka was taking money from Arnold?"

"Trying to. Anyways, the toilet?"

"I'll get it, and I'll get Oskar too. What would happen to this place if I wasn't around?"

The two disappeared, and Arnold breathed a bit easier, happy it was Oskar instead of Helga who ransacked his room.

"Whoa, what happened to your room?"

He turned. Helga was sitting on his desk in the spot where moments ago her journals rested.

"Oskar came in looking for money."

"That weird Slavic man? Why don't you get a lock? I mean, you live with a bunch of weirdos."

He eyed her, remembering that she had stated her jealousy of those same "weirdos" just days before. "They're not so bad once you get to know them."

"Still, he just came in and looked through your stuff. Aren't you upset?"

"It's only Oskar. He's basically harmless. And I don't have anything worth taking."

"Why did your eyes just dart to your closet? You got something in there?"

"No...just...I..."

"What's in there? Stolen goods? Love letters? A woman's suit you like to wear when your alone? A stack of porno magazines?"

"What's with you and porn?"

"A likeness of your love made out of gum?"

"What? Gum? Who does that?"

"No one." She turned the conversation back to him, and he quickly evaded her questions, telling her some lame excuse that he was sure she saw through.

"God, I hate when people put their nose where it's not wanted, going through your stuff. Don't you?"

"Yeah." A rush of guilt hit him like a train.

"I mean, some stuff is just private and sacred, you know? I don't understand why that's so hard to understand. At least Miriam and Bob gave me space, though that was mostly due to them ignoring nearly every moment of my life."

"So who did pry then? That made you hate it so much? It sounds like everyone left you alone."

"I just like my privacy, you know?" She gave an angry grunt. "Perfect Olga was always trying to find out about me, or get involved in my life. I never asked for her help, or anyone else's, you know?"

He nodded.

"I bet she went through all my stuff after I died...especially my books and journals. Nosy bitch."

He pounced. "After you died? You know when you died? You were here?" he asked, trying to sound surprised. He knew the information already, but it proved that Helga knew more than she was willing to tell him.

Her eyes widened, realizing she was clearly caught. "I mean, I...I don't know. I mean, I was here. You saw me. Didn't you tell me that? I was staying with Olga...I think. I mean, who else would I stay with? Yes, I was. I remember now. It's a miracle."

"What about how you died?"

"Still a blank. I remember being at Olga's. I remember the misfortune of running into you. That's all."

After her misstep, Helga was careful not to talk about herself at all. She evaded all questions and mostly talked about him. She was determined not to give any information away. Unfortunately for Arnold, the only information she had given away he had already learned.

Still, the episode wasn't a complete loss. He now knew that Helga knew when she died, and, he guessed, knew everything. His goal was no longer about finding out to let her know and put her soul at ease. He now suspected something more sinister and dangerous had led to her demise. He smelt foul play, and the oder was coming from the direction of the Pataki clan. And with Helga putting a muzzle on herself, there was only one way forward.

He knew the next step.

He had to talk to Olga Pataki.


	5. Miss Misery

All rights to Craig Barlett and Nick.

* * *

_How to be Dead_

Chapter 5 - Miss Misery

* * *

With a heavy burden on his shoulders, Arnold shifted his attention from one Pataki daughter to the other. Once again, he looked to the internet to find out information about the older sister, as well as consulting Phoebe. Helpful as ever, she was able to give a detailed history without asking too many questions. She now seemed thankful for Arnold's interest in Helga, but she warned him to be careful in prying in the Pataki's history, particularly relating to Bob Pataki.

While her father expanded his beeper kingdom to an appliance empire, becoming one of the richest men in Hillwood, she became something of a socialite. As disgusted as he was with the idea of people being famous for no reason other than for being someone's daughter (even if it was just Hillwood), he was thankful that it made the process of researching her much easier.

Despite all her beauty and accomplishments, Olga Pataki had never married and settled down nor did she achieve the great success that she seemed to promise. She moved back to Hillwood after college and a (very) brief stint in the Peace Corp. She was now employed by her father as vice president of Big Bob's Appliance Kingdom but also remained on several volunteer and charity committees in the city, obviously trying to keep the Pataki name positive despite her father's crooked dealings.

Despite her gross naivete and narcissism, Arnold had always believed that she was still a decent person at heart, much like her sister. He vaguely remembered one Thanksgiving that he and Helga spent running away from her family. Helga mentioned later that her family _had_ been worried about her, particularly Olga.

That memory confused him. How could a man who worried about his daughter being lost, and, despite his callousness, _did_ care about her, just dump his daughter without a word, and, after years of separation, refuse to see her. Phoebe had failed to give an answer to the question that had perplexed him, and he feared that Olga may be a dead end with regard to Bob's abandonment of Helga. She also may be unable to account for her own desertion of Helga and her mother.

He struggled to decide how to move forward. He had enough information, including an email address and phone number to contact Olga. Helga, however, complicated matters. She was around more often than before, much to his delight and dismay. He enjoyed talking to her about whatever struck her fancy. Since he had finished her journals and only reread them a few times, he didn't fear seeing her, except when he was researching Olga. Helga just assumed he was working on homework, which bored her. ("I hated school when I was there. Why would I care about your stupid work? Except for English...but that's just because I feel sorry for your awful skills.")

"How's your Gatsby paper coming?" she asked one day when he was stalking the internet for information on her sister. She was picking at her nails and sitting on his couch, an odd activity considering she could no longer pick up any dirt.

"Fine," he muttered, quickly pulling up that page. To be honest, he had become so obsessed with Helga's past that his school work was slipping a bit. He was lucky that Helga had become his tutor, otherwise all his previous work would be washed down the drain. He was, however, caring less and less with each passing day.

"I'm bored with you," she declared out of the blue.

"So go haunt someone else," he muttered, trying to sound defiant while he fearing that she actually would.

"I think I'd rather make you more interesting. How about a social make over?"

"From _you_?"

She ignored his comment. "I mean, you went partying once. Once! Why don't you go more often? All you do is go to school, go to work, and sit cooped up in your stupid room."

"Well, what did you do when you were in South Dakota that is so much more exciting than my life?" he asked, knowing full well her answer.

"Raves. Key parties. General mayhem and debauchery."

He turned to face her. _That_ had never been in the journal. "Seriously?"

"No, you gullible moron. I was in _South Dakota_, and a small dinky town at that."**

"So what were you doing?" he asked again.

"Irrelevant."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is it irrelevant?"

"Because I'm dead, so my past is worth nothing and unchangeable, whereas your present is able to be changed and spiced up a bit."

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He suddenly felt very tired. "Why do you insist on being a mystery, Helga? I thought we were friends. Friends don't hide things from each other."

She met his pleading look with a defiant eye. "Have you told Gerald that see dead people?"

"No..."

"My point exactly."

"Helga, c'mon. I've told you about me. Why are you hiding things from me?"

She gave him a smile that was both sad and sarcastic. "Maybe because I'd rather you think of a mystery as to how I got here. It's like Gatsby. Once you ask questions the veneer cracks and you can see things for the gilded crap it is. Much more interesting to live in the moment or look to the future rather than ask questions about that past."

"All Gatsby did as chase the past and hope for a future that was idealized and unreachable."

"And so in the past is where I remain, and I survive by thinking of my own green light, guiding me along the abyss of the afterlife and giving me enough sustenance to continue on."

"And what is your green light?"

"Irrelevant," came the short reply.

"So you want me to just imagine your life?"

"Exactly."

He sighed, understanding that he could never fulfill her request. He quickly realized that had he not known about her past, he wouldn't want to follow it anyways, since her request was bullshit. He let it pass, knowing that he would soon know the secrets surrounding her mysterious past, and _that_ would be more help to her than simply listening to problems that she could no longer fix.

"Anyways," she said loudly, interrupting his musings. "Back to making you less boring and more entertaining to me. I'm thinking...maybe some drugs. Or sex. How open are you to starting a band to get both of those?"

"Helga, even if I wanted that, which I don't, I can't play an instruments well enough to be in a band."

"Football Head, have you listened to music lately? You don't need to be good at anything. Just have a pretty face, and you'll be fine."

He watched her slyly. She had resumed picking at her nails. "You think I have a pretty face?"

She stopped. "Comparatively," she said in a strange tone, like a child trying to lie after getting caught for wrongdoing.

"Compared to what?" he asked as a familiar tingling sensation moved down his back and through his chest.

"Sid, Stinky, and Harold."

He laughed in spite of himself. His chest felt hollow. "Thanks, Helga."

She shrugged. "So...back to making you more interesting. Is there a girl you like that I can make fun of you when you go out with her?"

He paused. He had liked a few girls before Helga came along, but they were just casual attractions, not full blown crushes or interests. Since then, he only thought of one girl.... "No."

"You're lying. I can tell."

"No, seriously, no one."

Her face contorted, and she gave a sardonic smile. "'I thought we were friends. Friends don't hide things from each other'."

His words sounded awful pronounced in her cruel, mocking accent. "You keep secrets from me."

"My past is hardly worth knowing. So who is she?"

He stared at her. Her eyes, still a deep violet-blue despite her otherwise pale color, widened as she seemed to be unable to hide her interest in his answer, which he could not provide fast enough for her taste. Her simple actions, her naivete, both amused and touched him.

Her loneliness seemed to mirror his own. She had been so misunderstood to him...until now. She seemed at ease around him, and he never felt more comfortable than when he was talking to her...that she truly excepted him for being himself. She challenged him, aggravated him, excited him...

He pushed the thoughts aside. He had a job to do.

"Arnoldo? Hello?"

"There isn't a girl alive I like right now," he said, choosing his words very carefully. She watched him closely, clearly catching that he was hiding something in his words, but she was unable to pinpoint exactly what he was hiding. She dropped the subject and resumed her previous activity, pronouncing him a lost cause to coolness. He had long agreed with her, but that was the farthest thing from his mind.

Her question startled him, and his answer shook him. He cared about Helga; he wanted the best for her. His feelings made his actions all the more important. He needed to find out what happened to her. It was his obsession. _She_ was his obsession. And the idea of living without her...he pushed that thought aside, knowing full well that he had to find out what happened to her so that he could set her free. He would cross that bridge later.

He looked over his shoulder. Helga was now reading a book that was open on his couch. He quickly turned back to his computer and composed a hasty email to Olga Pataki, asking to meet with her to discuss Helga. She answered a few hours later, telling him to come over to her house the next day.

His heart beat with excitement as he waited for the time to come. Unfortunately, Helga had been hanging around him all day at school and after school, so he forced himself to go to the library and study to calm himself down and bore her. She helped him a bit more with his paper before fading into the night. Breathing slowly, he headed to find the answers to the questions that had been plaguing him for days.

Olga's humble home happened to be a luxury townhouse located in the posh district of Hillwood, surrounded by expensive shops, restaurants, and museums. It was immaculately, if not slight tackily, decorated. He had never been in a home like this. The rush of amazement left quickly, replaced by a realization that this was the life Helga should have inherited, a life of at least material comforts. He wondered which fate would have been worse for her.

Olga opened the door after the third ring. "Arnold Shortman, dear baby sister's good friend." She hugged him, taking him quite off guard. "Come into my humble home, please. Sit, sit." She motioned him to sit on an antique and uncomfortable couch. She sat across from him on a chair that looked just as painful. "So, dear Arnold, what brings you here?"

He frowned. "I wanted to talk to you about Helga."

"Dear baby sister!" she cried, dramatically covering her face with a well-manicured hand. "Oh, I can barely bare to hear the name!"

He paused, trying to find a way to be productive without being callous. "I'm sorry for your loss."

She sniffed loudly. Her mascara had begun to run as well, leaving Arnold to wonder briefly why someone so dramatic would not invested in waterproof make-up. "Yes, it is such a tragedy, isn't it? Oh, how I have suffered these long, weary days."

Arnold eyed her carefully, trying to discern her sincerity. He was beginning to doubt it a bit as she failed to carry her grief with a silent and strong dignity, although that could be because she was not a silent and strong woman but an emotional girl-child.

She sniffed. "I will never forget that day."

"And what day is that?" he asked anxiously.

"The day she died!" she sobbed.

Arnold felt exasperated. All he wanted was a damn date, cause, _anything_. Olga was utterly helpless and evasive. "Her friends have suffered as well. Phoebe, and myself, have struggled to understand her death."

She nodded. "It is so difficult to understand. My grief almost consumes me some days. So difficult, so tragic."

"Yes. But our grief.... We cannot grieve because we don't understand. We don't have any details on how Helga lost her life."

She shook her head. "No, dear, dear Arnold. You don't want to know the details. Oh, the details! Baby sister! The tragedy! The horror! The horror!"

"Please, Olga. We cannot move on without knowing!"

"You are better off not knowing! Oh, if only _I_ didn't know! I would be able to sleep at night, without this guilt...baby sister! Forgive me!"

Her words sent a jolt through his body."Guilty? Why would you feel guilty?"

"Why wouldn't I feel guilty? Dear Arnold! Dear baby sister!"

"Olga, please! I'll listen, I'll be your confidant. Why do you feel guilty? What happened to her?"

"Dear Arnold, I cannot tell you. Oh, how I wish I could! But I cannot speak it. I cannot!"

He felt his blood boil. What had they done to her? Was he sitting here with Helga's coldblooded killer? Or, as he feared, her executioner's accomplice? "Why can't you speak of it?"

She looked at him carefully as if seeing him for the first time. She wiped her eyes and composed herself. "Arnold, don't you think that is a little rude? I am _grieving_ over the loss of my _sister_."

_And she is not important to anyone else other than her blood? Where was her family when she needed them? Snuffing out her life, it seems._ Arnold swallowed his disgust. He had to keep her talking. He had to get more clues other than her confessions of guilty feelings. He needed hard evidence, more information. "I'm sorry, Olga," he said in more subdued tones. "I just miss her too."

Her eyes softened. "Then I am also sorry for your loss." She stood up.

That seemed to be the end of it. Olga had gotten through her fit, and now she was practically kicking him out of the house. He rose as well. "Well, I suppose I'll go. Thank you for your time, and again, I'm sorry for your loss."

The phone suddenly rang. "Excuse me, dear Arnold. Please wait here for just a moment."

"That's fine. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?"

"Of course."

Arnold waited until he was sure Olga was deep in her conversation. He took the liberty of quickly searching the house, going from room to room to find any clues while simultaneously listening for Olga. He finally reached a guest bedroom on the second floor. His gut told him that this had been Helga's room.

Olga had cleaned a bit. There was no sign of clothes or other personal affects that would have belonged to the last occupant of the room. A chill went up his spine. Was this where she died? Where she breathed her last desperate breath? He looked around the room and noticed a set of keys laying on the nightstand. He quickly pocketed them.

He moved over to the desk. Sure enough, in Helga's handwriting, was a to do list, as well as Phoebe's information. There were several books also there, including a worn copy of _Hamlet._ He smiled to himself. He continued to shuffle through the desk, until he found a small, leather bound book.

It was her last journal.

"Arnold?" Olga called from downstairs. He quickly ran downstairs, mumbling about getting lost then staring at her pictures. He ran home after Olga quickly rushed him out of the house. He couldn't wait to find out Helga's thoughts on the days before her death. Had she known something was going to happen? Were their clues to the identity of her murderer (there was foul play involved; he was sure of it now).

And would she mention their meeting?

He thought about that day. He remembered she looked thin, almost sickly. She didn't act like herself; she was quiet and shy and distracted. At the time he thought she had just changed over the course of their separation, but now he feared that she knew something was going to happen to her. She anticipated it. Why hadn't she confided in him? Why didn't he try harder to find out answers? Would she be here now if he did?

He stopped himself. It would lead to madness to go down that road. He sat down, trying his best to remain calm, and opened the book.

_Miriam is getting sicker. The doctors think she doesn't have much time left. She seems to have woken from a dream, realizing the impact of her illness. She realizes that the end is near, and she is interested in reconciling. My heart is not cold enough to begrudge a dying woman's wish. She is, after all, my mother. She once carried me and protected me, gave me life. Shouldn't I be a comfort to her as she prepares for death? _

_ In the dark reaches of my soul I am thankful for the news; not _it_ exactly, but for a distraction. I can stop thinking about him. Is Margaret right? Am I evil? And I cannot help but wonder, if Miriam loses her battle, what will happen to me? I hope she has the will to fight. I will stay with her as long as she is here. I owe her that much, I suppose. I will suffer along side her. My freedom can wait until she is free, one way or another._

_ My path is clear. I will remain with her, in this hell, until she dies. Will that finally give me absolution? Maybe Margaret is right, and this is my repentance. _

_ It has been nearly six months. Oh Fortuna, why has your eye turned so coldly on me? Why am I cursed to suffer so? My one chance at happiness and love, although a faction of what I am capable of feeling, thwarted by darker forces that only appear in one's mind. The other...the other I was forced to abandon. Oh, the other! "My love, my hope! my life!" My straying was not cheating...though I became attached to other, I still loved thee! But no one, certainly not you, my understanding judge, would begrudge me an attempt to find happiness in this hell. It was all for naught, though, and here I remain, more alone than ever. My one friend, my kindred spirit, gone by his own hand._

_ Miriam is making plans to release me. She is circling the drain, and wants me to be in a new situation well before she dies. Everyday she grows weaker. My fate is in her hands._

_ There is hope. The fates have turned their faces to me and smiled. The sun once again has blessed me with warmth. I am being sent home. I will be near _him_. To just see him...it will fill the cup of my heart full and sustain me for years._

_ It comes, however, with a price. Margaret has made her decision: she wants to be rid of me. Understandable, I wouldn't want me either. But despite all her "Christian goodness" and devotion to family, when backed against a wall, she is proven false. Pompous fool. I am glad to be rid of her. _

_ So, as a minor, I am forced to be the ward of someone. And my future rests in the hands of the two people I hate more than anyone._

_ Olga and Big Bob._

_ But it is worth it. Their involvement in my life, their tyranny, I will bare. I will persevere. I have my love, my passion to keep me afloat. I will see Phoebe. And, fate willing, I will see him._

_ They do not want me._

_ Olga says she cannot keep me. She gives a speech, stating how self-sacrificing she is with all the charities and volunteering she does and cannot give up and as a result she cannot give me the proper care. She also said that I should use this as an opportunity to mend bridges with Bob. Simpleton! Does she not remember that it was our father who didn't want me?_

_ Lunch with Bob proved to be worse than my nightmares. He is the same boorish, pig of a man, selfish to his heart's core and blind with ambition. He told me of his life, whilst calling me Olga, and stated that he didn't have time for me. In exasperation and desperation, I reminded him that I _was_ a Pataki, _his daughter_, his responsibility. His flesh and blood. He coldly responded that I was a disappointment to him, my mother all over again. He stated what I had suspected for years: he never wanted me, and there was no force on earth, including the law, that would make him to accept me into his home. He gave up any form of guardianship for me long ago. _

_ Even if he was forced to take me in, I wouldn't go. I never thought that Bob could be so heartless. I wouldn't go. I would starve, freeze, die before I would remain under his roof. The law couldn't force him to care for me, nor could it force me to be with him. As he has only one daughter, I now have no father. I will never understand him, his hatred for me and Miriam. His contempt for us. He never saw that, while my true nature was all my own, my superficial nature was his, not hers. And I no longer care._

_ What is to become of me now? I am months away from eighteen. I am forced to return to my exile. My heart cannot take it. To be so close to what I love, what I cherish, what I have worshiped from afar. What I never stopped loving. _

_ Oh, I would rather die than feel this heartbreak!_

_ I have seen him. I have spoken to him. My eyes have once again beheld his face, the complete beauty of his whole self, body, mind, and soul. My ears have been blessed with the caress of his voice. I have experienced his sunshine, his care. He missed me. ME! Will this keep my heart from breaking? To see him one last time? I shall cherish this memory until I die._

_ I want to see him before I go, before I am once again exiled to some unnamed place. Tell him my feelings. I need to. My heart can survive anything as long as I am able to finally tell him how I feel. After a lifetime of loving him, I want him to understand my coldness, my strong outer shell. It was all an act, as he so often suspected. Love! Life! Hope! Give me strength to bare my soul, put my heart on his alter, sacrifice all just to tell him my feelings._

_ The gavel has banged, intertwining our fates. Bob will be forced to take me, though he has demanded that I continue to stay with Olga. That is the best of both evils. I fear his wrath. But I will be near my love, my idol. Does he care for me? Can he ever love such a tortured, broken thing? Our meeting has given me reason to hope like I have never hoped before._

The journal left there, just a few days after he saw Helga. He had been in the hospital at this point of the story, fighting for his future just as Helga fought for hers.

Her life had been so bleak. How had she been able to survive for so long? he understood why she looked so terrible that day at the mall. She had gone through so much? Her mother dying...was Miriam still alive? How did she handle her daughter's death? So many questions surrounded one little woman...

Despite himself, he found the most perplexing and irritating question plaguing him to be the one not related to her death. Who was this boy she loved? A searing pain shot through his chest when he read about him. Someone from Hillwood, but what boy had she ever liked? And loved?

It was nighttime. The day faded way, leaving Arnold exhausted both physically and mentally. Any further investigation would have to wait until the morning. Now, all he could do was wait for morning.

"Why are you reading _Beyond: A History of Theories on the Afterlife_?"

"Huh?" He had been reading in bed, trying to discover any other answers to what was happening to Helga and what would happen to her.

"Why are you reading that book?" She sat down beside his feet. He suddenly felt she was sitting far too close.

"Can't I read what I want?"

"That's not what I'm asking. Why are you reading _that_ book?"

"I'm just curious, that's all. Being around you makes me think of death and other things that go along with it."

"That's depressing."

He watched her. She was staring back at him, her face hiding any emotion. "So...I've been meaning to ask..."

"Arnold, I have no idea how I died. Stop asking."

"I know. I was just...curious..."

"About what?"

"Well, what happens when you die?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're dead."

"You're a mammal but I don't ask you about gorillas."

"Fine. Just forget I asked." He returned to his reading.

He couldn't concentrate. He felt her eyes on him. He sensed her moving closer to him, although only a few inches. She sat Indian style beside his knees. "I'm not sure if can ask this, but are you asking because you want to know about me or about your parents?"

He lifted his eyes. She was looking at him with concern in her wide eyes, her face free of any sarcasm. He couldn't lie or hide anything with her looking at him with such a face. He rarely saw her so open. "Both."

She lifted her chin. "What do you think happens?"

"I don't know...you tell me what happened."

He could tell she was becoming frustrated. "Nothing. I remember nothing."

"So the afterlife is nothingness? Until one comes back as a ghost? Does everyone hate heir own specter?"

She paused for a moment, a familiar smirk clouding her features. "No, I think you are the only one going crazy."

"Thanks. So it's simply nothing. We rot, and that's all."

Her smirk faded, transforming into a sympathetic look. "I've thought about this a lot since I've been here."

"And?"

"Maybe I heaven't experience anything because I was meant to come back to haunt you."

"What do you mean?"

"It would hardly be fair to tell someone living the secrets of the beyond, or whatever you want to call it. It would be an unfair advantage in life." A pause. "Besides, you would be spard the agony of coming to conclusions as to what will happen."

He sat silently, pondering her words, finally concluding that she had a valid point. His thoughts were replaced by a cloud of worry. "So what do you think will happen to you? I mean, will you be here forever?" He felt a strange feeling soar through his chest.

She, evasively and annoyingly answered his question with a question, again asking for his insight.

"I don't know. I've thought about it a lot, you know, with my parents and all. I don't necessarily believe in a judge and all that stuff, but I believe if you are a good person you will be rewarded and you can look after others -- not as directly as you, of course."

"You think I am looking out for you?"

They awkwardly sat in silence. "Sometimes," he said slowly.

"Liar."

He gave her a sheepish smile but said nothing. Here eyes narrowed, and he feared she would see through him and guess what he was up to.

"So why do _you_ think I am here?" she pressed.

He darted answering her directly, stating that she had come as some sort of academic and life coach, reminding her of her claims on his intelligence and general interestingness. She gave a short snort in response. "I don't know. Does anyone really know?"

"Yes. Sometimes blindly so."

"I guess I'd like to think that the afterlife ends up being whatever you believe it to be."

"That's a lame copout. Then why be a good and moral person?"

"Because that's for the betterment of everyone, including yourself."

"And what happens if you are a bad person? Any hell?"

"I haven't worked that out yet. And stop grilling me. What about you?"

"Nothingness."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. That's my guess. Though maybe I'm in hell right now, having to deal with you."

He ignored her comment. "No heaven or hell at all? No extra existence?"

"Hell is on earth. It's just randomness how you get your lot in life, and you just have to deal with it the best you can. I do believe in some sort of guiding hand. Not a god, per say, but something. But mostly we are alone."

"My head hurts."

She laughed and got down. "Go to sleep. Your little brain has had enough exercise for the day."

He tried to follow her instructions, but sleep would not come. He thought of her words. If her belief in the afterlife was true, she would be gone forever, cursed to nothingness. Perhaps....perhaps if he stopped trying to find the answers, if he followed her desires, she would be able to stay with him. She could avoid a curse, stay with him...forever.

The idea thrilled him, but the guilt that followed hit him like a truck. Could he be so selfish as to keep her here? She admitted it herself: no one could know what would happen. For now, he questioned his abilities to continue, to find the truth, to set her free.

In the morning, he pushed everything aside. He was determined to find justice for Helga. If it meant losing her in the end, so be it. Once again, he dreaded his next step.

Talking to Bob Pataki.

* * *

** I have never been to South Dakota, so I apologize to anyone who is offended. I did, however, grow up in rural Indiana, so I understand the boringness of a small town. That is what I base Helga's town on. Besides, South Dakota is supposed to be very scenic, whereas northern Indiana is ugly and as dull as dishwater.

Full author's note on my livejournal page.


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